FIELD  AND 
FOREST  FRIENDS 


Clarence 


•  •/•.••'••.-.•!  '• 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


FIELD  AND 
FOREST  FRIENDS 


By  CLARENCE  HAWKES 

"WOODS  AND  WATER  SERIES" 

FIELD  AND  FOREST  FRIENDS.  A 
Boy's  World  and  How  he  Discov- 
ered it.  Illustrated  by  Charles 
Copeland,  $1.25  net. 

THE  BOY  WOODCRAPTER.  Illus- 
trated by  Charles  Copeland,  $1.25 
net. 

F.  G.  BROWNE  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS  CHICAGO 


THE  fawn  had  not  taken  three  jumps  when  she 
was  a] 


ifter,  him 


FIELD  AND 
FOREST  FRIENDS 

A  BOY'S  WORLD 
AND  HOW  HE  DISCOVERED  IT 


BY 

CLARENCE  HAWKES 

AUTHOR  OF  "SHAGGYCOAT,"  "THE  TRAIL  TO  TH 
WOODS,"  "LITTLE  FORESTERS,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

CHARLES  COPELAND 


CHICAGO 

F.    G.    BROWNE   &   CO. 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,    1913 
BY    F.    G.    BROWNE    &    GO. 


Copyright    in    England 
All   rights    reserved 


PUBLISHED,    SEPTEMBER,    1913 


THB- PLIMPTON -PRESS 
NORWOOD- MASS- U'S-A 


TO  EVERY  BOY 

WHO  HAS  FOUND  THE  TRAIL 

AND  FOLLOWED  IT 

THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Introductory:     THE    TRAIL    TO    WOODS    AND 

WATERS     .      .      .     .      .      »     .      .     13 

I  A  TALE  FROM  THE  SKIDWAY    ...     23 

II  How  THE  PORCUPINE  GOT  His  QUILLS     67 

III  THE  STORY  OF  WILLOW  BROOK     .      .     81 

IV  A  LITTLE  DAPPLE  FOOL     ....     97 
V  THE  FAMILY  OF  BOB-WHITE     .      .      .117 

VI  THE  BUSY  BEE  .     .     .     ,     .     .     .143 

VII  DOWN  STREAM  IN  A  CANOE     .  •  .     .   165 

VIII  JACKING  AND  MOOSE  CALLING      .      .   175 

IX     IN  BEAVER-LAND 187 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  fawn  had  not  taken  three  jumps  when  she 
was  after  him Frontispiece 

Facing  page 

He  crept  forward  foot  by  foot  until  he  was 
almost  upon  him .      .      .134 

It  was  as  pretty  a  wilderness  picture  as  ever 
delighted  the  eyes  of  a  woodsman     .      .      .180 

He  was  a  magnificent  picture  as  he  stood  there 
in  the  full  moonlight       ....      .      .184 


THE  TRAIL  TO  WOODS  AND 
WATERS 


FIELD   AND    FOREST 
FRIENDS 

INTRODUCTORY 
The  Trail  to  Woods  and  Waters 

1  HE  trail  to  woods  and  waters  was  a 
double  one  that  I  followed  with  eager  feet 
in  the  happy  days  of  boyhood. 

The  first  branch  of  this  winding  trail 
started  just  under  an  old  pair  of  bars, 
where  we  let  the  cows  through  from  a 
crooked  lane  into  the  barnyard. 

Each  morning  I  let  down  these  bars, 
and  started  the  cows  for  pasture  and  each 
night  I  put  them  up  again  when  the  cows 
were  driven  home. 

The  trail  wound  about  many  a  grassy 
hillock  or  mossy  hollow  and  around  many 
is 


14      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

a  jagged  stone  through  the  lane  to  the 
pasture,  for  it  was  a  cows'  path,  and  all 
cow  paths  are  crooked.  Many  a  sharp 
stone  lurked  in  ambush  for  bare  chubby 
feet.  Feet  that  were  always  covered  with 
stone  bruises  and  cuts.  Toes  that  were 
bandaged  with  rags,  much  to  the  dis- 
figurement of  the  small  chubby  feet. 

What  a  ludicrous  picture  it  was ;  that  of 
the  small  boy  hopping  on  one  foot  and 
holding  on  to  his  other  when  he  stubbed 
his  toe  upon  a  sharp  rock.  If  the  wound 
was  very  bad,  the  small  urchin  had  to  sit 
down  in  the  grass  and  nurse  the  injured 
member,  holding  it,  with  wonderful  con- 
tortions, close  to  his  mouth  that  he  might 
blow  upon  it  and  cool  the  fever  and  pain. 
What  boy  of  you  who  reads  these  pages 
ever  warmed  his  cold  feet  on  a  frosty 
morning  in  the  flattened  down  grass 
where  the  old  cow  had  slept  the  night  be- 
fore, keeping  the  earth  warm  and  inviting 
for  blue,  aching  toes? 


Trail  to  Woods  and  Waters     15 

All  the  way  of  its  many  turns  and 
twists,  this  trail  to  the  woods  was  fringed 
with  weeds  and  grasses,  with  flowers  and 
bushes,  many  of  which  were  hung  with  de- 
licious fruit. 

Just  at  the  point  where  the  lane  led  into 
the  pasture,  a  golden  sweet  apple  tree 
stood.  Here  the  small  boy  always 
stopped,  not  only  to  refresh  himself  with 
a  half  dozen  apples,  for  he  was  not  a  dainty 
boy,  but  also  to  shy  apples  at  the  red  squir- 
rels that  were  always  scolding  and  frisking 
about  in  the  tree. 

Further  out  in  the  pasture  a  ways  the 
trail  led  under  a  leaning  apple  tree.  The 
tree  was  so  much  inclined  that  the  boy 
called  it  the  leaning  tower.  He  could 
stand  perfectly  erect  and  walk  up  the 
trunk  of  the  tree  without  taking  hold  with 
his  hands — the  only  tree  on  the  farm  that 
admitted  of  such  a  stunt.  Here,  perched 
upon  the  trunk  of  this  friendly  tree,  about 
twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  the  boy 


16      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

would  sit  for  five  minutes,  looking  off 
across  the  country  to  see  if  anything  out  of 
the  ordinary  was  doing.  Perhaps  in  the 
mowing,  beyond  the  pasture  he  would  spy 
a  woodchuck  sitting  erect,  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  a  small  black  stump,  or 
maybe  he  would  discover  a  hawk  sailing 
high  up  in  the  heavens.  If  so,  he  would 
watch  the  big  bird  and  try  to  discover  what 
he  was  hunting. 

Further  on,  the  trail  led  by  great  clumps 
of  raspberries  and  blackberries.  At  these 
spots,  the  boy  always  stopped  for  refresh- 
ments. Only  those  who  have  tasted  the 
wild  fruit  directly  from  the  vine  or  bush, 
know  its  delicious  flavor. 

Finally  on  the  trail  led  into  a  maple 
grove  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  the 
sweet  green  woods.  In  this  maple  grove, 
the  boy  loved  to  linger,  for  it  was  the  sugar 
bush. 

It  did  not  take  much  imagination  to  see 
the  trees  each  with  a  painted  bucket  dan- 


Trail  to  Woods  and  Waters      17 

gling  upon  its  side,  or  to  hear  the  musical 
drip,  drip,  drip,  of  the  sap  into  the  pails. 
This  was  what  the  boy  called  "The  Song 
of  the  Sap."  To  make  the  picture  com- 
plete however,  he  had  to  imagine  white 
clouds  of  smoke  and  steam  pouring  from 
the  sugar  house,  and  this  was  more  difficult 
on  a  hot  summer's  day* 

The  sugar  orchard  was  the  home  of  the 
gray  squirrels,  and  it  was  a  delight  to  sit 
perfectly  still  upon  an  old  log  and  see  if 
one  could  discover  a  squirrel  dropping 
down  maple  seeds,  and  if  so  to  spy  out 
the  gray  fellow  high  up  in  the  treetop 
balancing  himself  nicely  upon  a  small 
limb,  getting  his  breakfast. 

It  was  so  cool  and  sweet  here  in  the 
slumbrous  aisles  of  the  maple  grove  that 
there  was  always  a  temptation  to  linger, 
while  the  silver  footed  moments  of  sum- 
mertime sped  by. 

The  Trail  to  the  waters  the  boy  reached 
out  in  the  meadow  in  front  of  the  old  farm- 


i8      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

house  in  which  he  lived.  But  the  trail  did 
not  start  there. 

One  day  the  small  urchin  took  his  lunch 
and  followed  the  little  stream  for  a  mile 
up  through  the  meadows  to  its  source,  just 
to  see  where  the  trail  really  did  begin. 

He  tramped  by  many  a  swaying  clump 
of  willows,  or  green  cat-tails.  The  sweet 
flag  he  always  marked  down  in  his  mind, 
for  he  would  come  some  other  day  and 
dig  the  root  which,  when  it  was  cured  with 
sugar  and  spice,  was  fit  for  a  King. 

Many  a  time  the  boy  was  fooled,  think- 
ing he  had  found  the  beginning  of  the 
trail,  but  when  he  would  poke  away  the 
grass  he  would  find  that  the  tiny  stream 
went  still  further  back  for  its  source.  At 
last  he  found  it  however,  high  up  in  a  hill- 
side. It  was  a  small  basin  perhaps  a  foot 
across,  fringed  with  ferns  and  water 
grasses  and  in  its  middle  the  water  pure, 
cool  and  sweet,  bubbled  up  in  a  tiny  living 
fountain.  Up  from  the  cool  sweet  earth 


Trail  to  Woods  and  Waters      19 

it  gushed,  a  thing  of  wonder  and  beauty. 

It  was  evening  when  the  boy  returned 
home  and  he  was  late  in  driving  home  the 
cows,  but  he  felt  well  repaid  for  the  long 
tramp,  for  he  had  found  the  secret  of  the 
little  stream.  He  had  followed  the  trail 
to  the  waters  from  its  very  beginning. 

The  course  of  the  trail  from  that  point 
was  well  known  to  him. 

The  source  alone  had  been  its  mystery. 

He  knew  all  its  deep  holes  and  the 
rapids,  where  the  speckled  trout  loved  to 
lie,  and  the  pebbly  shallows  where  the  min- 
nows darted,  and  the  deep  hole  where  the 
lazy  suckers  stood  with  head  upstream 
sucking  in  their  dinner. 

He  knew  the  bank  where  the  noisy  king- 
fisher had  his  nest,  and  his  favorite  stump 
from  which  he  loved  to  fish. 

The  broad  pool  where  the  heron  speared 
fish,  and  the  tall  grasses  that  hid  the  musk- 
rat's  house. 

All  the  little  waterfalls,  including  the 


2O      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

one  that  turned  his  small  water  wheel  he 
knew. 

He  knew  the  brook  in  spring  when  it 
ran  riot,  in  summer  when  it  had  dwindled 
to  a  tiny  thread,  in  the  autumn,  when  the 
life  along  its  banks  was  nipped  by  the  first 
frost,  and  in  the  winter  when  Jack  Frost 
had  sealed  up  all  the  pools  for  their 
winter  sleep. 

He  had  followed  this  trail  to  the  waters 
often,  down  to  the  broad  deep  mill  pond, 
where  to  his  young  mind  it  ended. 

The  mill  pond  was  to  this  trail  to  the 
waters,  what  the  forest  was  to  the  trail  to 
the  woods — its  consummation,  and  end. 
The  point  at  which  it  ceased  to  be,  and  be- 
came something  larger  and  better. 


A  TALE  FROM  THE  SKIDWAY 


CHAPTER  I 
A  Tale  from  the  Skidway 

BARE-FOOTED,,  tanned-f  aced  boy,  dressed 
in  brown  denim  overalls  and  a  jumper, 
sat  astride  a  mammoth  pine  log  in  the  mill 
yard,  carving  his  initials  in  bold  letters  in 
the  soft  bark  of  the  pine.  He  whistled 
and  smiled  as  he  carved  and  seemed 
well  content  with  his  occupation  and 
surroundings. 

It  was  always  a  pleasure  for  the  boy  to 
be  about  the  mill,  where  everything  was 
so  mysterious  and  terrible. 

The  hurrying  belts,  the  mad  gearing 
and  the  screaming  circular  saw  were  all 
wonderful.  There  was  a  certain  poetry 
and  rhythm  in  this  mad  rushing  machinery 
that  fascinated,  even  while  it  terrified. 
The  boy  never  could  quite  understand  how 


24      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

the  water  which  slipped  so  easily  into  the 
end  of  the  flume,  only  lathing  his  hand 
slightly  as  he  held  it  in  the  current  could 
be  turned  into  such  mad  careering  force. 

When  one  tire.d  of  the  hum  of  wheels 
and  the  pounding  of  belting  and  the  hid- 
eous shrieking  of  the  great  circular  saw, 
there  was  always  the  mill  yard  to  flee  to. 
There  the  sounds  from  the  mill  were  all 
subdued  and  the  placid  mill  pond,  and  a 
fringe  of  green  hills  beyond  offset  the  tur- 
bulence of  the  mill. 

The  initials  were  finally  completed  and 
the  boy  drove  his  knife  deep  into  the  log 
and  viewed  his  carving  critically. 

It  did  not  just  suit  him,  the  bark  should 
come  off,  to  make  a  panel,  and  then  the 
initials  should  be  carved  in  the  wood  in- 
stead of  the  bark,  this  would  be  much  more 
artistic,  so  he  gashed  the  bark  savagely, 
making  a  rather  unsymmetrical  square 
about  the  initials. 

"I  wish  you  would  stop,"  said  a  deep 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     25 

mellow  voice  from  the  heart  of  the  log. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  scarred  and  hacked 
when  I  take  my  turn  on  the  carriage  be- 
fore the  saw.  I  want  to  be  as  nearly  per- 
fect as  I  can,  now  I  am  cut  in  pieces." 

The  boy  pulled  the  knife  from  the  bark 
quickly,  shut  it  with  a  snap  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket. 

He  had  often  heard  the  trees  and  wild- 
flowers  talk  in  the  deep  woods,  but  never 
a  log,  and  he  wished  to  know  more  of  the 
monster  pine  on  which  he  was  sitting. 

"I  did  not  know  you  cared,"  he  said 
sympathetically.  "I  thought  you  were 
only  a  log,  and  would  soon  be  sawed 
into  boards,  so  a  few  extra  cuts  would  not 
make  any  difference." 

"Only  a  butt-log,"  sighed  the  old  pine, 
and  its  voice  had  a  touch  of  melancholy, 
like  the  soughing  of  wind  in  pine  needles. 
"Only  a  butt-log !  That  is  what  most  peo- 
ple think,  but  I  am  more  than  that.  I  am 
a  personality.  A  memory  beside  which  all 


26      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

the  other  memories  in  the  countryside  pale 
and  are  as  nothing,  unless  I  make  an  ex- 
ception of  the  memories  of  the  mountains 
and  the  cliffs,  near  which  I  stood;  of 
course  they  are  older  and  wiser  than  I. 
But  I  am  still  a  noble  memory  and  a  per- 
sonality as  mysterious  and  rich  as  the  odor 
of  my  needles  on  a  fresh  summer  breeze, 
when  the  sun  has  warmed  my  thought 
and  stirred  me  to  speak  of  other  days. 
The  things  that  I  have  seen  would  fill  a 
large  book,  and  the  memories  would  all 
be  sweet  and  wholesome." 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  could  have  seen 
very  much,"  said  the  boy  skeptically. 
"You  have  always  been  the  sentinel  pine, 
standing  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 
My  grandfather  says  you  stood  there  just 
as  you  did  last  year  when  he  was  a  small 
boy.  You  could  not  stir  from  the  spot. 
How  could  you  have  seen  much?" 

"I  was  patient  and  observing  and  the, 
world  came  to  me,"  replied  the  pine 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     27 

thoughtfully.  "I  will  tell  you  my  story 
and  then  you  will  see. 

"About  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago,  or  thirty  or  forty  years  after  the  Pil- 
grims landed  at  Plymouth,  a  tiny  white 
pine  seed,  parted  company  with  the  cone 
that  bore  it  and  floated  leisurely  down 
through  the  balmy  spring  atmosphere.  It 
had  been  two  years  in  forming  and  was 
glad  to  escape  from  its  parent  tree  and 
venture  into  the  world  on  its  own  account. 

"Just  at  the  particular  moment  that  the 
seed  freed  itself  from  the  cone,  there  came 
a  slight  puff  of  wind,  that  influenced  the 
after-life  of  the  seed  greatly,  for  it  wafted 
it  forty  or  fifty  feet  into  the  forest,  and 
deposited  it  in  a  dark  gloomy  hollow. 
Thus  were  the  agencies  of  environment 
working  and  shaping  the  future  white 
pine,  even  before  it  had  germinated. 

"This  tiny  seed  was  a  very  insignificant 
looking  thing,  seemingly  of  no  more  worth 
than  a  grain  of  sand.  But  here  appear- 


28      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

ances  were  most  deceitful,  for  the  seed 
held  a  secret  more  precious  than  all  else 
in  the  world,  the  secret  of  life,  which  with 
all  his  inquisitiveness  and  his  genius  for 
finding  out  things,  man  has  never  been 
able  to  discover.  If  that  seed  could  have 
told  the  world  what  it  knew  that  spring 
morning,  the  scientist  would  have  hugged 
himself  with  delight. 

"But  the  little  seed  was  very  modest 
and  unconscious  of  its  importance.  It  lay 
there  in  the  mold  where  the  playful  spring 
zephyr  had  dropped  it,  and  dreamed  while 
the  summer  days  went  by. 

"Sometimes  when  the  day  was  warmer 
than  usual,  and  the  heat  penetrated  to  the 
deep  gloom  of  the  dense  forest,  the  seed 
felt  a  longing  or  a  desire,  for  something,  it 
knew  not  what.  Then  it  seemed  to  the 
seed  that  something  was  calling  to  it  from 
above,  but  the  feeling  soon  passed  and  the 
seed  kept  on  dreaming. 

"At  other  times  the  seed  was  conscious 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     29 

of  power  within  itself,  a  force  that  made 
it  restless,  a  memory  that  was  calling,  a 
desire  that  was  stirring,  a  hope  that  had 
not  yet  been  fulfilled.  Finally  one  warm 
summer  morning  the  seed  thought  it  felt 
something  tugging  at  its  very  inner  self. 
Then  it  awoke,  and  pushed  up  through  the 
mold. 

"It  was  much  brighter  and  more  cheerful 
above  the  mold  and  the  seed  was  glad  that 
it  had  obeyed  the  call,  but  who  it  was  that 
called  it,  the  seed  did  not  at  first  know. 
Finally,  down  through  the  treetops  there 
fell  a  warm  pencil  of  light,  vibrant  and 
delicious. 

"It  touched  the  tiny,  pale  sprouting 
seedling  with  its  warmth  and  then  the 
seedling  knew  that  it  was  its  foster 
father,  the  sun,  who  had  been  calling  all 
through  the  summer  hours.  Henceforth, 
its  mother,  the  earth,  and  its  foster  father, 
the  sun,  would  nourish  and  sustain  it  in 
sunshine  and  storm,  in  heat  and  cold. 


3O      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

"Two  years  went  by  and  there  was  only 
a  tiny  tuft  of  green  to  show  for  the  seven 
hundred  odd  days.  For,  living  as  it  did 
in  the  deep  forest,  under  the  skirts  of  large 
trees,  fifteen  minutes  of  sunlight  a  day 
was  all  the  little  seedling  got,  and  one 
cannot  grow  very  fast  on  such  short  ra- 
tions. It  would  have  liked  to  walk  out 
into  the  sunlight  and  warmth,  but  God 
had  placed  it  in  the  gloom,  so  it  stayed 
there  and  lived  its  life  the  best  it  could. 

"On  the  little  pine's  fifth  birthday,  one 
could  have  covered  it  with  a  tumbler,  so 
slowly  it  grew. 

"When  it  was  ten  years  old  a  four  quart 
pail  would  have  screened  it  from  the 
world,  while  on  its  twenty-first  birthday, 
when  it  was  of  age,  a  bushel  basket  would 
have  covered  it.  A  white  pine  in  the  open 
would  have  been  much  larger  at  this  age, 
but  this  pine  was  a  victim  of  circum- 
stances, during  its  sapling  years. 

"After  this  I  grew  much  faster  than  I 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     31 

had  done  before,  for  the  tip  of  my  blue 
green  plumes  now  reached  a  pencil  of  light 
for  which  I  had  been  long  stretching. 

"So  instead  of  a  scant  fifteen  minutes  of 
sunlight  a  day,  I  now  had  an  hour  of  my 
foster  father's  gracious  smile. 

"How  it  warmed  and  cheered  me!  Be- 
fore, I  had  been  gloomy  and  foreboding, 
but  now  I  became  hopeful  and  cheerful, 
and  full  of  great  longings.  Before,  it 
had  seemed  to  me  that  I  would  never  get 
out  of  the  darkness  and  the  damp  mold. 
Now,  I  was  sure  that  some  day  I  would 
be  almost  as  tall  as  the  great  monarch  pine 
from  which  I  had  sprung. 

"The  first  two  decades  of  my  life  had 
been  spent  almost  entirely  in  the  bosom  of 
my  mother,  the  earth.  Now  I  belonged 
partly  to  the  earth,  and  partly  to  the  sun. 
I  could  not  but  obey  the  new  impulse 
within  me  to  stretch  up  and  out.  I  had 
been  sleeping,  had  been  a  dullard  and  a 
stupid,  and  must  make  up  for  lost  time. 


32      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

"From  being  almost  afraid  of  my  foster 
father,  the  sun,  I  began  to  love  him,  and 
to  look  for  his  coming,  as  a  child  for  its 
parent.  I  was  lonely  when  he  was  hidden 
from  me;  true,  he  always  sent  his  hand- 
maiden, the  moon,  to  cheer  us  through  the 
night,  but  her  smile  was  not  so  bright 
and  inspiring  as  that  of  the  glorious 
sun. 

"By  the  time  I  was  thirty  years  old,  I 
had  reached  the  height  of  a  man,  and  felt 
every  inch  of  my  hard-gained  height. 
The  rabbit  could  no  longer  jump  over  me 
and  make  me  feel  mean  and  small,  as  he 
had  done  years  before.  He  had  to  run 
around  me  now,  and  I  laughed  at  him  and 
felt  glad  for  every  inch  of  my  height. 
The  snows  of  winter  no  longer  bowed  me 
down,  as  they  had  done  when  I  was  small, 
nearly  breaking  my  back,  and  covering  me 
until  I  could  not  see  the  world.  I  could 
now  keep  my  head  above  even  a  fair  sized 
drift.  But  the  ice  storms  I  still  feared, 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     33 

for  they  occasionally  bowed  me  down  so 
that  they  nearly  broke  my  back. 

"About  this  time,  I  bore  my  first  cone, 
and  if  it  needed  anything  more  to  make  me 
vain,  it  was  this.  My  parent,  the  great 
pine  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  had  been 
rattling  down  cones  ever  since  I  could  re- 
member, and  I  had  never  had  even  a  sign 
of  a  cone.  When  that  first  cone  fell,  I 
felt  as  though  I  had  parted  company  with 
the  most  precious  thing  in  the  world,  but 
when  I  found  that  they  came  every  second 
year,  I  was  comforted. 

"When  I  was  about  forty  years  old,  I 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  destruction. 
Up  to  this  time,  all  the  men  that  I  had 
known  had  been  red  men,  and  I  wish  they 
had  been  the  only  men  the  forest  had  ever 
known.  If  they  had  been,  it  would  not 
be  the  sorry  sight  it  is  now.  These  quiet, 
nature-loving  men  came  and  went  under 
the  branches  of  the  forest  as  silently  as 
the  deer  and  the  panther.  They  seemed 


34     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

a  part  of  the  woods,  and  we  looked  for 
their  coming  and  going  as  we  did  that  of 
the  seasons.  But  finally  the  white  man 
came.  He  awoke  the  forest  with  new  and 
terrible  lightning,  before  which  the  deer 
and  the  panther  were  powerless,  and  the 
red  man  melted  away  like  the  snowbanks 
in  early  spring.  But  worst  of  all,  this 
white  man  brought  with  him  an  imple- 
ment, keen  and  bright,  which  he  calls  an 
axe.  Ever  since  the  day  of  his  coming 
the  echoes  of  the  axe  have  resounded 
through  the  forest,  and  one  by  one  my 
kind  have  been  laid  low.  As  you  know, 
I  was  the  last  of  the  first  growth  pines  on 
the  mountain  side. 

"As  I  have  already  said,  when  I  was 
about  forty  years  old,  this  white  man  came 
with  his  axe.  The  first  time  I  saw  him, 
he  was  blazing  a  wood  road  through  the 
forest. 

"He  was  picking  out  a  path  that  should 
be  smooth  in  winter,  and  as  straight  as  he 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     35 

could  make  it,  without  too  much  work. 
He  lopped  down  a  sapling  here,  and  a 
clump  of  bushes  there,  and  every  few  feet, 
he  stopped  and  blazed  a  tree.  This 
blazed  tree  would  show  him  the  road  when 
the  snow  was  piled  so  deep  that  other  land 
marks  would  be  obliterated.  He  stopped 
close  to  me  and  sighted  from  one  blazed 
tree  to  another.  Would  I  be  in  the  way? 
That  was  the  question.  He  seemed  to 
think  I  would  for  he  raised  his  axe.  A 
shudder  ran  through  me,  and  I  thought  of 
a  maple  sapling  that  he  had  just  laid  low. 
How  the  life  blood  had  gushed  from  the 
cut,  and  with  what  a  thud  it  had  struck 
mother  earth.  I  knew  I  never  would  rise 
again,  for  I  had  seen  trees  blown  over  in 
a  great  storm  and  they  never  did. 

"Then  the  man  lowered  his  axe  and 
stopped  to  consider.  Perhaps  I  would 
not  be  in  the  way  after  all,  or  may  be 
the  road  would  be  too  rough  if  it  went  just 
where  I  stood  for  he  changed  the  mark  on 


36      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

the  last  tree,  blazing  the  opposite  side,  and 
went  on,  and  I  was  allowed  to  stand. 

"All  through  the  autumn  and  winter 
there  were  strange  foreign  sounds  in  the 
forest.  For  days  at  a  time  there  would 
be  the  ceaseless  ring  of  the  axe  and  oc- 
casionally that  thundering  crash,  that  told 
of  one  of  our  number  laid  low.  Then 
when  the  logs  had  been  cut  and  piled, 
teams  came  into  the  woods  and  loaded 
them  and  they  were  hauled  down  into  the 
valley,  where  they  were  hewed  into  timber 
and  builded  into  rude  cabins.  If  any- 
thing more  was  needed  to  make  me  vain, 
it  came  when  a  pretty  little  pair  of  forest 
warblers  built  the  daintiest  nest,  that  ever 
you  saw,  in  my  boughs. 

"To  think  that  they  had  chosen  me  in- 
stead of  some  of  the  taller  trees  for  their 
abiding  place,  filled  me  with  such  pride 
that  it  is  a  wonder  that  I  did  not  crack  my 
bark.  All  through  summer  they  stayed 
with  me  going  and  coming  from  the  nest, 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     37 

feeding  and  rearing  their  fledglings  and 
I  was  the  happiest,  vainest  little  pine  in 
all  the  great  woods.  When  the  strong 
winds  howled  in  the  treetops,  bending 
them  and  sometimes  even  breaking  off 
branches,  I  stood  stiff -backed  and  res- 
olute, and  tried  with  all  my  sturdy  might 
not  to  rock  the  little  downhair  lined  nest 
among  my  green  plumes  lest  I  spill  some 
of  the  joy  that  it  contained. 

"When  at  last  the  fledglings  grew  up 
and  the  whole  family  deserted  me,  I  felt 
as  lonesome  as  a  solitary  tree  out  in  the 
open,  but  I  kept  the  nest  for  a  long  time 
as  a  remembrance. 

"The  second  winter  of  the  lumbering  op- 
erations in  the  forest  where  I  lived,  some- 
thing happened  that  filled  me  with  grief 
and  nearly  wiped  me  off  the  face  of  the 
white  snow  covered  world  as  well.  It  also 
set  me  to  thinking  of  how  uncertain  a 
thing  life  is,  even  for  a  small  insignificant 
little  pine. 


38      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

"I  had  often  seen  the  lumberman  cast- 
ing admiring  glances  at  my  sire  the  old 
sentinel  pine,  as  they  passed,  but  their  ad- 
miration was  the  admiration  of  greed  as  I 
soon  discovered.  It  does  not  pay  to  be 
too  much  admired  in  a  covetous  world  like 
this.  One  day,  one  of  the  choppers  came 
and  began  hacking  away  at  the  old  pine, 
under  whose  protecting  arm  I  had  been 
reared.  How  grand  he  looked,  and  how 
small  and  insignificant  these  two  puny 
wood  cutters!  But  how  untiring  they 
plied  their  axes,  and  what  deep  cuts  those 
sharp  blades  made  when  they  fell !  I  saw 
the  white  chips  fly  out  on  the  snow  and 
wondered  if  it  hurt  my  sire  to  have  his 
sap  chipped  out  like  that.  At  first  I 
thought  he  would  be  able  to  withstand 
them,  I  had  seen  him  battle  successfully 
with  the  hurricane  so  many  times,  but  I 
soon  saw  that  he  was  doomed,  and  a  deep 
sense  of  loneliness  came  over  me,  even  be- 
fore I  saw  him  laid  low. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     39 

"Finally  I  saw  the  two  choppers  looking 
up  at  the  dark  blue  tiptop  plumes  of  the 
giant  tree,  which  were  sharply  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  Already  the  giant  tree 
had  begun  to  totter  and  waver,  like  an  old 
man  who  leans  upon  his  staff.  First  he 
swayed  a  bit  one  way,  and  then  the  other, 
and  finally,  with  a  great  rush  of  wind  that 
was  like  the  roar  o£  a  mighty  tempest,  and 
a  cloud  of  snow  that  was  thrown  up  as  it 
struck,  the  noble  pine  lay  upon  the  breast 
of  its  mother  earth,  never  to  rise  again. 

"My  sire  had  fallen  within  ten  feet  of 
me,  and,  had  I  been  struck,  I  should  have 
been  broken  to  bits. 

"Once,  while  they  were  limbing  out  the 
great  pine,  one  of  the  choppers  said  he 
would  cut  me  down,  as  I  was  right  in  the 
way.  I  did  not  care  much  if  he  did,  the 
fall  of  my  sire,  had  so  saddened  me,  but 
the  other  chopper  told  him  to  notice  how 
tall  and  straight  I  was,  and  how  sym- 
metrical. 'Some  day  that  will  be  as  fine 


4O      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

a  tree  as  this/  he  said,  so  I  was  allowed 
to  stand. 

"When  the  great  pine  had  been  cut  into 
logs  and  drawn  away,  there  was  a  broad 
gap  in  the  woods  where  it  had  stood.  I 
now  got  a  full  blaze  of  sunlight  and  all 
the  winds  that  had  formerly  buffeted  the 
sentinel.  The  sun  made  me  grow  rapidly, 
and  perhaps  even  the  winds  which  I  at 
first  thought  very  cold  and  boisterous 
helped  to  develop  me.  At  least  they 
taught  me  to  strike  my  roots  deep  in  the 
earth  and  hold  on  with  might  and  main. 

"Fifty  more  years  went  by,  and  I  stood 
at  the  edge  of  the  forest  where  my  sire  had 
stood  and  took  the  buffets  of  the  wind,  and 
the  smile  of  my  foster  father,  the  sun,  and 
was  glad,  after  the  manner  of  a  pine. 
Glad  for  the  sunlight  and  the  cold,  the 
rain  and  the  dew;  glad  for  the  rich  mold 
in  which  I  stood,  and  for  the  blue  sky 
above  me. 

"I  could  never  tell  you  all  my  thoughts 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     41 

as  I  stood  there,  while  spring  and  summer, 
autumn  and  winter,  went  by.  Sometimes 
when  the  sun  warmed  my  needles,  a  rich 
aromatic  odor,  full  of  sweet  memories,  the 
memories  and  longings  of  a  pine,  would 
float  out  on  the  merry  breeze. 

"I  saw  the  beech  and  the  maple  put  forth 
their  first  tiny  buds  and  open  their  myriad 
leaves  in  the  springtime,  and  I  saw  them 
stripped  of  all  their  glory  in  the  autumn 
to  make  a  carpet  for  the  forest.  They 
were  changeable,  sometimes  gay  and 
glorious  in  green  or  scarlet  robes,  but  I 
was  always  the  same.  I  never  changed 
my  deep  blue  green  mantle,  and  to  the  na- 
ture lover  I  was  always  the  dark,  restful 
pine,  perhaps  sad,  but  I  merely  reflected 
the  life  about  me,  or  maybe  my  melancholy 
was  tinged  by  that  of  the  wind,  which  was 
always  moaning  and  sighing  in  my 
needles. 

"Who  shall  guess  my  thoughts  on  lonely 
winter  nights,  as  I  stood  guard  at  the  edge 


42      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

of  the  forest,  when  the  Pleiades  was  so 
cold  and  glittering  that  it  seemed  like  a 
panoply  of  spear  points,  and  the  six  points 
of  the  great  bear  might  have  been  six 
icicles?  Who  shall  guess  what  things  I 
saw  when  the  prowling  fox  barked  in  the 
cavernous  aisles  of  the  snowbound  forest, 
while  the  weird  hooting  of  an  arctic  owl 
woke  mysterious  echoes  in  the  woods? 
Who  but  I  knows  just  how  the  rabbits 
play  tag  of  a  winter's  night,  when  the 
moon  is  at  her  full,  and  the  crust  glints 
and  glistens  like  a  pavement  of  diamonds? 

"Was  I  lonely  as  I  stood  there,  druid- 
like  and  hoary,  with  my  coverlet  of  snow 
and  ice,  forsaken  by  the  birds  and  squir- 
rels, and  by  even  the  little  wood  mouse 
that  dwelt  beneath  my  roots? 

"Did  I  long  for  a  sigh  of  the  south  wind, 
and  a  whisper  from  the  sleeping  hepatica, 
and  arbutus ;  did  I  yearn  for  the  coming  of 
spring? 

"Ah,  who  shall  say.     These  are  the  in- 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     43 

scrutable  secrets  of  nature,  that  man  with 
all  his  inquisitiveness  cannot  find  out. 
Men  may  hew  and  hack  me,  may  saw  and 
burn  me,  may  grind  me  into  pulg  and 
make  paper  of  me,  but  they  will  never 
tear  this  secret  from  my  breast. 

"Yon  saw  that  howls  like  a  demon  and 
whose  bright  teeth  are  hungry  for  my 
heart  will  make  man  no  wiser.  The 
secret  is  nature's  own,  and  she  guards  it 
well. 

"If  you  will  count  the  rings  upon  my 
cross-section  from  one  hundred  and  five 
to  one  hundred  and  nine,  you  will  find  that 
they  come  very  close  together.  In  fact 
they  almost  coincide,  and  only  the  very 
best  eyesight  can  discern  them.  This 
too,  tells  a  bit  of  my  history.  These  con- 
tracted rings  represent  three  very  cold 
summers  and  winters,  due  to  a  season  of 
spots  upon  the  sun.  During  these  cold 
years  the  plants  and  trees  grew  very  little, 
and  even  what  they  did  grow  in  the  sum- 


44      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

mer  was  contracted  and  dwarfed  in  the 
winter. 

"How  ghastly  and  sickly  my  foster 
father,  the  sun,  looked  for  these  three 
years.  How  feeble  and  unsatisfying  his 
smile,  that  had  usually  been  so  warm  and 
loving. 

"He  was  not  like  himself  at  all,  and  it 
was  a  great  relief  to  me  when  he  was  again 
bright  and  cheerful. 

"It  was  the  wind  that  finally  humbled 
my  pride  and  made  me  bow  my  haughty 
head.  I  had  long  thought  I  was  the 
strongest  thing  in  the  world  and  I  had  no 
fear  of  wind  or  storm.  Once  I  had  been 
struck  by  lightning  and  I  still  bear  the 
scar,  one  hundred  and  forty  rings  back 
from  my  bark,  but  I  soon  recovered  from 
that. 

"But  the  wind,  that  went  mad,  and  tore 
at  the  heart  of  the  forest  taught  me  the 
greatest  lesson  I  ever  learned  and  that  was 
the  lesson  of  humility.  Then  I  under- 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     45 

stood  that  no  matter  how  strong  one  may 
think  himself  there  is  always  something 
stronger,  that  will  some  day  humble  him. 

"One  afternoon  early  in  August,  when  I 
was  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  old,  the 
sky  grew  suddenly  green  and  a  strange 
calm  was  over  every  thing. 

"Now  for  the  earth  to  look  green  was  all 
right,  but  for  the  sky  to  assume  a  strange 
copper  colored  green  was  all  wrong,  so 
the  trees  began  stirring  their  leaves  rest- 
lessly, although  there  was  no  wind,  and 
one  could  not  have  discovered  how  it  was 
done. 

"Then  a  green  and  yellow  funnel,  edged 
with  pink  and  saffron,  and  fringed  with 
black  was  seen  trailing  along  the  earth. 
When  it  drew  nearer  it  was  seen  that  there 
was  a  mighty  commotion  at  the  lower  end 
of  this  funnel,  where  there  was  a  churning 
and  rolling  and  tumbling,  with  quick 
flashes  of  lightning,  and  fringes  of  cloud 
that  looked  like  rain  or  mist. 


46      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

"The  nearer  the  funnel-shaped  cloud 
drew  to  the  forest  the  more  incessant  be- 
came the  churning  and  roaring  and  the 
brighter  the  lightning.  The  birds  and  the 
squirrels  scurried  to  their  hiding-places, 
and  the  two  great  fish-hawks  that  had 
built  their  nest  in  my  branches  that  spring, 
flew  screaming  home. 

"On  came  this  great  seething,  maddened 
funnel  of  wind  and  lightning,  rain  and 
hail,  filled  with  clouds  of  dust  and  sticks. 
As  it  drew  nearer,  trees  and  all  kinds  of 
debris  were  seen  rolling  and  tumbling, 
grinding  and  breaking. 

"When  the  cloud  storm  dipped  down  to 
the  forest,  great  trees  bent  and  broke  or 
were  blown  over  and  uprooted.  Giants 
that  had  withstood  the  tempests  of  cen- 
turies, went  over  like  ninepins,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  was  afraid. 

"At  first  when  it  struck  me,  I  stood  up 
proudly.  I  had  never  before  bowed  my 
head,  and  why  should  I  now?  But  it  only 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     47 

took  a  very  few  seconds  for  me  to  see  the 
folly  of  such  a  course.  So  I  bent  and 
swayed,  thrashed  and  writhed,  and  so  far 
as  I  could,  obeyed  the  cyclone.  It 
stripped  me  of  many  of  my  branches  and 
bent  me  down  until  my  back  was  ready  to 
break.  Then  with  a  roar  like  continuous 
thunder,  and  a  constant  play  of  lightning, 
with  a  torrent  of  hail  and  rain,  and  a 
blinding  cloud  of  dust  and  debris  of  every 
kind,  the  cyclone  sucked  half  of  my  blue 
green  plumes  of  which  I  was  so  proud  into 
the  whirling,  seething  vortex,  and  swept 
on,  leaving  me  writhing,  twisting,  and 
groaning,  torn,  bent  and  bleeding  with  my 
bark  hanging  in  long  white  shreds. 

"How  humiliated  and  crushed  I  felt  as 
I  tried  to  straighten  my  half  broken  back 
and  untangle  my  split  and  broken  limbs, 
from  which  many  of  the  green  plumes  had 
been  blown.  I  had  been  so  proud  but  a 
few  minutes  before!  Sure  of  my  own 
great  strength  and  thinking  that  nothing 


48      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

could  make  me  bow  my  haughty  head. 

"That  evening  when  the  stars  appeared 
and  the  soft  night  winds  sighed  in  my  torn 
plumes,  the  pale  moon  beheld  not  the 
haughty  old  sentinel  pine,  but  an  humble 
tree,  most  of  whose  symmetry  and  beauty 
had  departed. 

"But  time  heals  all  such  wounds  as  these, 
and  as  the  summers  and  winters  came  and 
went,  the  green  plumes  were  again  lux- 
uriant upon  my  branches  and  new  limbs 
appeared,  or  the  old  ones  spread  and 
branched,  to  cover  up  my  fine  trunk,  and 
again  I  was  symmetrical  and  beautiful  as 
only  a  tree  can  be. 

"After  this  my  life  went  on  peacefully 
and  uneventfully  for  fifty  years  more. 
Men  came  and  went  in  the  valley  below, 
crawling  slowly  like  worms  and  from  my 
great  height  they  seemed  like  ants.  They 
built  their  little  block  houses,  and  in  them 
lived  their  lives  of  joy  and  sorrow,  while 
I  stood  guard  on  the  brow  of  the  hill. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     49 

Occasionally  men  came  into  the  woods  and 
hacked  and  scarred  the  ancient  forest,  but 
I  went  unscathed. 

"The  red  man  no  longer  camped  under 
my  friendly  boughs  and  the  deer  and  the 
bear,  and  the  tall  moose  had  disappeared 
from  the  forest.  But  I  still  had  the  birds 
and  squirrels  and  all  the  small  creatures 
whose  pitter-patter  in  the  leaves  I  knew 
so  well. 

"The  jay  and  the  crow  nested  in  my 
branches  and  the  red  squirrel  could  make 
a  fair  meal  upon  my  cones  when  he  was 
hungry.  But  the  fish-hawks,  who  had 
builded  in  my  branches  before  the  great 
storm,  were  gone.  Their  nests  have  been 
blown  to  bits,  and  one  of  the  great  birds 
killed  in  the  cyclone. 

"Many  a  little  forest  warbler  also  found 
how  good  a  resting  place  were  my 
branches.  So  their  love  notes  mingled  in 
the  springtime,  with  the  soft  soughing  of 
the  wind  in  my  needles. 


5O     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

"When  I  was  about  two  hundred  years 
old  there  came  such  a  summer  as  I  hope 
will  never  visit  the  earth  again.  Day 
after  day  the  sun  rose  into  a  cloudless  sky 
and  set  in  a  sea  of  brass.  No  soft  white 
cloud  cheered  the  parched  earth  with 
promise  of  rain.  No  dew  fell  at  eventide 
and  no  rain  fell  for  weeks  and  months. 
The  old  mill  pond  in  the  valley  shrank  to 
a  mere  pool,  and  the  river  that  fed  it 
nearly  went  dry. 

"Springs  that  had  not  failed  in  the 
memory  of  man  dried  up,  grass  and 
shrubs  were  burned  to  a  crisp,  and  dust 
and  a  terrible  thirst  was  over  all  the  land. 
The  beasts  of  the  field  and  the  fowls  of 
the  air  seemed  ill  at  ease.  Cattle  roamed 
restlessly  to  and  fro,  lowing  and  im- 
patient. The  great  bald  eagle  that  had 
made  its  nest  in  my  top  for  several  years 
circled  about  the  mountain  top  screaming 
when  there  was  nothing  to  enrage  it. 
Birds  twittered  uneasily  and  uttered  their 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     51 

cries  of  alarm  when  there  was  seemingly 
nothing  to  alarm  them.  Some  of  the  wild 
creatures  even  seemed  to  go  mad  because 
of  the  great  thirst  that  had  fallen  upon 
the  earth,  and  went  snapping  and  snarling 
at  their  fellows.  All  living  things  seemed 
out  of  joint  and  well  they  might. 

"One  evening  just  at  dusk  there  ap- 
peared a  dull  red  glow  that  grew  rapidly 
in  intensity  as  the  night  wore  on.  Later 
on  in  the  night  it  filled  the  sky  with  a 
cloud  that  obscured  the  stars  and  made 
the  moon  look  like  a  sickly  streak  of  yel- 
low light. 

"The  next  morning  the  sun  rose  in  a 
blood  red  sky,  and  there  was  great  activity 
among  the  creeping,  crawling  men  down 
in  the  valley.  Teams  were  set  to  work 
ploughing  broad  furrows  about  the  home 
lots  and  preparing  in  other  ways  to  keep 
their  homes  from  the  red  demon  that  now 
mastered  the  eastern  horizon. 

"Great  clouds  of  smoke  rolled  heaven- 


52     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

ward,  obscuring  the  sun  and  casting  a 
strange  unearthly  light  over  all. 

"All  things  that  could,  fled  before  the 
oncoming  demon.  The  buck  and  the  doe 
galloped  by  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

"The  nimble  red  fox,  belly  to  earth,  fol- 
lowed close  behind  them.  In  their  wake 
ran  a  score  of  cottontails  and  gray  rabbits, 
while  the  skunk  and  the  woodchuck  lum- 
bered clumsily  after  them.  Even  the 
turtle  brought  up  the  rear,  running  a 
desperate  race  to  the  old  mill  pond. 

"Great  flocks  of  birds,  squawking  and 
calling  whirred  by.  All  were  fleeing  to 
a  place  of  safety. 

"But  not  so  the  sentinel  pine.  My  roots 
were  planted  deep  in  the  soil  of  the  hill- 
side, and  hooked  tightly  about  the  solid 
rocks.  I  was  anchored  and  unmovable, 
like  the  eternal  hills.  No  matter  how  hot 
the  air  grew,  or  how  dense  with  smoke,  I 
must  stay  at  my  post  like  a  good  soldier 
and  stand  or  fall  as  fate  willed  it. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     53 

"On  came  the  red  monster,  licking  up  the 
grass  and  the  ferns,  the  underbrush  and 
the  tall  trees  of  the  forest,  with  ten  thou- 
sand red  tongues.  Its  roar  was  like  the 
roar  of  the  cyclone,  and  there  were  under- 
tones and  overtones,  hissing  and  snapping, 
sputtering  and  cracking. 

"The  earth  was  so  parched  that  the 
flames  ran  in  the  grass  almost  as  fast  as 
the  deer  and  the  foxes,  while  the  main  fire 
leaped  from  treetop  to  treetop  over  gaps 
of  fifty  feet. 

"Whenever  it  came  to  a  tall  pine  that 
was  dry  as  tinder  it  leaped  up  as  though 
it  had  caught  in  a  powder  mill  and  the 
flames  shot  heavenward  two  or  three  hun- 
dred feet.  One  by  one  I  saw  my  tall 
neighbors  wrapped  in  flames  and  I  knew 
that  my  fate  was  sealed. 

"Despair  clutched  me  and  I  shivered 
like  a  human  thing  at  the  thought  of  what 
a  gigantic  funeral  torch  I  would  make. 
Then  a  rumble  of  distant  thunder  and  a 


54      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

strong  puff  of  west  wind  sent  a  thrill  of 
hope  through  me.  The  rumble  was  fol- 
lowed by  another  and  yet  another,  and 
then  a  peal  of  thunder  woke  the  hillside. 
On  came  the  flames  vying  with  the  thun- 
der that  now  rolled  incessantly.  The 
flames  in  the  underbrush  reached  my 
trunk  and  began  burning  swiftly  up. 
There  was  sixty  good  feet  to  climb,  be- 
fore my  branches  were  reached,  but  I 
knew  if  once  my  top  was  kindled  nothing 
could  save  me.  Deeply  the  flames  burned 
into  my  side,  making  a  scar  that  I  still 
carry,  while  the  thunders  rolled  and  the 
skies  piled  up  angry  clouds. 

"The  mighty  sheets  of  flame  that  leaped 
from  treetop  to  treetop,  were  only  a  fur- 
long away  when  the  flood  gates  of  heaven 
were  opened  and  I  was  saved  from  a  ter- 
rible doom. 

"Then  how  the  rain  fell,  drenching  the 
parched  earth  with  great  sheets  of  water 
that  the  dust  drank  up  almost  before  it 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     55 

touched  the  earth.  In  five  minutes  the 
flames  that  had  scorched  my  side  for  fif- 
teen or  twenty  feet  were  out,  and  torrents 
-of  water  were  running  in  all  the  little 
gullies  and  every  blade  of  grass  was  re- 
joicing in  a  language  all  its  own. 

"Baffled  and  subdued  the  flames  hissed 
and  sputtered,  roared  and  cracked,  but 
their  fury  was  checked  and  they  finally 
died  out,  leaving  a  long  black  waste  be- 
hind them. 

"This  was  the  last  great  tragic  event  in 
my  life,  that  is,  until  I  was  laid  low,  just 
as  my  sire  had  been.  For  fifty  years 
more  after  the  great  forest  fire,  I  lived  the 
quiet,  peaceful  life  of  a  sentinel  pine, 
spreading  my  plumes  to  heaven  and  adorn- 
ing the  brow  of  the  mountain.  Grand  and 
majestic,  a  thing  of  wonder  and  beauty,  a 
living,  breathing  spire  of  deep  blue  green, 
a  landmark  for  the  weary  traveler  for 
miles  around. 

"One  crisp  December  morning  when  I 


^6      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

was  something  over  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  old,  two  men  came  and  stood  by  me 
and  talked  and  their  conversation  con- 
cerned me. 

"One  was  the  grave  old  gentleman  upon 
whose  land  I  stood  and  who  owned  me, 
the  other  was  a  lumber  merchant. 

"  'It's  a  noble  old  tree,'  said  my  owner, 
passing  his  hand  caressingly  over  my 
bark.  'It  has  stood  here  as  the  sentinel 
pine,  looking  just  as  it  does  now,  ever 
since  I  can  remember.  In  fact,  when  I 
was  a  boy  it  looked  taller  than  it  does  now, 
but  I  suppose  that  was  just  my  boyish 
fancy.  It  must  be  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  feet  tall,  and  sixty  feet  up  to 
the  first  limb.' 

"  'My  great  grandfather  said  he  could 
remember  when  it  was  much  smaller,  and 
his  great  grandfather  remembered  when  it 
was  not  much  taller  than  a  man.  It  seems 
like  sacrilege  to  sell  such  a  tree.' 

"  Tooh,'    said    the    lumber    merchant. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     57 

'If  it  stays  here  it  will  some  day  fall  to 
earth  of  old  age  and  then  it  will  do  no 
one  any  good.  What  is  your  price  for  the 
tree?' 

"  'One  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,'  said 
my  owner,  'and  I  would  not  sell  it  at  that 
price  if  I  didn't  need  the  money.  This 
pine  is  the  most  majestic  and  beautiful 
thing  on  the  farm  and  I  feel  as  though  I 
was  selling  my  own  great-great-grand- 
father.' 

"The  lumber  merchant  looked  up  at  my 
straight  symmetrical  bowl  and  measured 
me  with  his  eye.  To  his  matter-of-fact 
vision  I  was  just  so  many  thousand  feet  of 
sawed  lumber.  It  was  plain  to  see  that 
I  pleased  him,  for  he  rubbed  his  hands  to- 
gether in  a  satisfied  way  and  said,  'I'll 
take  it.' 

"The  next  morning  two  wood  choppers 
came  with  axes  and  saws  and  I  said  good- 
bye to  the  forest  and  my  native  mountain, 
for  my  hour  had  come. 


58      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

"Each  time  the  bright  blade  of  the  axe 
sank  into  my  flesh,  there  was  a  nipping, 
biting  pain.  Soon  I  felt  a  numbness 
creeping  up  the  side  upon  which  they  were 
cutting.  This  numbness  which  was  like 
a  strange  sleep  crept  to  my  first  limbs,  and 
then  to  my  very  tip-top  plume. 

"When  they  had  cut  in  part  way,  in  one 
side,  they  began  on  the  other  and  soon  that 
side  too  was  numb.  Gradually,  like  one 
who  is  heavy  with  sleep,  the  numbness  en- 
folded me,  then  the  white  snow-capped 
hills  and  valleys  faded  from  my  sight. 
The  sound  of  the  wind  died  in  the  tree- 
tops  and  I  began  to  waver,  like  an  old  man 
upon  his  staff. 

"Then  a  few  more  keen  axe  strokes  sev- 
ered my  heart,  and  with  a  rush  and  a  roar 
that  shook  the  mountain  side,  I  fell  and 
was  no  longer  a  tree,  but  several  thousand 
feet  of  unsawed  timber." 

"What  a  pity  that  you  are  dead,"  said 
the  boy  sympathetically. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     59 

"I  am  not  exactly  dead,"  said  the  old 
butt-log,  in  its  deep  rich  voice,  "but  I  am 
wonderfully  changed.  Nothing  is  quite 
dead  until  it  disintegrates,  and  falls  to 
dust. 

"I  still  have  great  possibilities  ahead.  I 
am  too  valuable  for  men  to  allow  me  to 
pass  out  of  existence  like  a  useless  thing. 

"Who  can  say  just  what  my  future  life 
will  be?  I  am  quite  curious  about  it  my- 
self. True,  yonder  howling  saw  will 
work  havoc  with  me  as  a  butt-log,  but  I 
shall  be  something  else  when  I  am  sawed. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  travel.  Maybe  I  shall 
be  the  finishing  stuff  of  a  great  ocean 
liner.  Then  will  I  ride  the  billowing 
deep  and  my  fiber  will  sing  the  ancient 
song  of  the  sea,  where  the  wind  howls  in 
the  rigging  just  as  it  does  in  the  treetops 
of  the  forest. 

"Perhaps  as  the  floor  stuff  of  a  parlor 
car  I  shall  travel  from  seaboard  to  sea- 
board, vibrating  and  thrilling  to  the  song 


60      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

of  thundering  car  wheels  and  listening  all 
day  to  the  click  of  steel  rails. 

"Maybe  in  the  nursery,  little  feet  shall 
patter  over  me  and  baby  tongues  shall 
prattle  above  me. 

"Or,  if  a  higher  destiny  should  happen 
to  be  mine,  I  might  be  the  sounding  board 
in  a  piano,  that  the  master  musician  shall 
play.  Then  again  would  I  vibrate  with 
the  joy  of  spring  and  the  flush  of  summer. 
Or  still  better,  the  violin  maker  may  find 
a  piece  of  wood  hundreds  of  years  hence, 
that  was  once  taken  from  my  fiber.  He 
may  fashion  a  wonderful  instrument  from 
it.  Then  indeed  would  I  again  hear  the 
wind  in  the  pine  needles  and  the  melan- 
choly dirge  of  autumn. 

"So  you  see  I  am  not  dead,  but  changed 
when  I  am  sawed  up  into  boards." 

"We  want  that  log,  sonny,"  said  the 
sawyer,  who  had  trundled  out  the  car  so 
quietly  that  the  dreamer  on  the  log  had 
not  heard  him. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     61 

The  boy  scrambled  down  from  his 
perch  and  watched  the  men  roll  the  great 
log  on  to  the  car  and  trundle  it  into  the 
mill.  When  it  had  been  put  into  place, 
he  took  his  position  on  the  car  beside  the 
log  and  rode  back  and  forth  while  the  old 
log  was  being  sawed. 

When  the  saw  was  not  in  motion  it  was 
a  great  silver  disk,  ragged  as  hooked  and 
gleaming  teeth  could  make  it,  but  when  it 
was  in  motion  it  was  a  misty  blurr  round 
as  a  cartwheel  and  without  a  sign  of  a 
tooth  upon  it. 

When  the  carriage  moved  forward  and 
it  struck  the  butt-log  of  the  ancient  pine, 
it  howled  in  demoniacal  glee  and  whenever 
it  struck  a  knot  it  fairly  shrieked. 

One  by  one  the  white  fresh  boards  were 
sawed  from  the  great  log,  until  one  was 
reached  that  arrested  the  attention  of  the 
men  at  the  saw. 

In  the  middle  of  this  board  was  a  panel 
where  the  wood  was  worn  away  and 


62      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

polished  as  white  as  bone  and  quite  as 
hard. 

"Look  at  that,  Jim,"  said  the  sawyer  to 
his  helper.  "Pretty  bad  scar,  ain't  it. 
What  you  guess  did  it?" 

"Fire,"  said  the  small  boy  on  the  car- 
riage, who  was  watching  every  board 
taken  from  the  old  log. 

"That  is  right,"  said  the  sawyer,  "it  was 
a  forest  fire.  Must  have  happened  more 
than  fifty  years  ago,  but  how  did  the  kid 
know?" 

The  boy  blushed  and  looked  ashamed, 
but  said  nothing  and  the  sawing  went  on. 

When  the  mammoth  log  had  been 
sawed  and  placed  upon  another  car  to  be 
run  into  the  yard  and  stacked,  the  sawyer 
said,  "Sixteen  hundred  feet  in  one  butt- 
log.  Well,  that  breaks  the  record!" 

"Gracious,  sonny,"  he  exclaimed,  when 
he  had  finished  figuring,  "seems  to  me 
you'll  be  late  to  school.  Bell  must  have 
rung  half  an  hour  ago." 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway     63 

"That's  so,"  said  the  boy,  catching  up 
his  dinner  pail  and  starting  down  the 
gang  plank  on  a  run.  "I  was  so  inter- 
ested in  the  old  log  I  forgot,"  but  all  the 
rest  of  the  way  to  school  he  marvelled  at 
the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  old  pine's 
story  and  was  deeply  grateful  that  he  had 
eyes  to  see  and  a  heart  to  understand  these 
things. 


HOW  THE  PORCUPINE  GOT 
HIS  QUILLS 


CHAPTER  II 
How  the  Porcupine  Got  His  Quills 

ONE  day  the  bear  who  is  quite  ignorant 
himself,  thought  he  discerned  signs  of 
growing  ignorance  in  the  wood  folks,  and 
he  ordered  that  a  school  be  begun  the  fol- 
lowing day,  with  himself  as  teacher. 

He  sent  the  owl  through  the  woods 
with  the  news.  This  dignified  messenger 
would  fly  from  tree  to  tree  crying, 
"School,  School,  School."  Then  the 
squirrels  and  the  four-footed  folks  on  the 
ground  would  ask  when,  and  the  owl 
would  reply  with  great  dignity,  "to-mor- 
row, to-morrow,  to-morrow." 

Accordingly  the  following  morning  the 
school  assembled  in  a  little  open  spot  in 
the  woods  where  there  was  an  old  log  for 
the  scholars  to  sit  upon  and  a  convenient 


67 


68      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

tree  for  the  bear  to  lean  against.  There 
was  some  grumbling  that  the  bear  should 
be  allowed  to  teach,  but  there  is  always 
grumbling  about  the  teacher,  so  it  was  no 
worse  that  other  schools. 

It  had  to  be  admitted  even  by  his 
enemies  that  the  bear  made  a  very  stern 
looking  teacher  as  he  sat  upright  against 
the  tree  with  his  spelling  book  upon  his 
knees. 

Upon  his  nose  he  wore  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles that  he  had  taken  from  a  hunter 
whom  he  had  killed  the  year  before;  these 
increased  his  importance  in  the  eyes  of  his 
pupils  and  made  him  look  almost  learned. 

The  fox,  the  coon  and  the  woodchuck 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  class,  while  the 
rabbit,  the  porcupine  and  the  skunk  were 
at  the  foot,  with  all  the  other  four-footed 
creatures  in  between. 

When  it  was  time  for  the  school  to  be- 
gin the  fox  stepped  forward  and  made  a 
pretty  little  speech,  praising  the  bear's 


The  Porcupine's  Quills        69 

thoughtfulness  in  calling  the  school,  and 
suggesting  that  a  collection  be  taken  up 
for  him.  As  no  one  present  had  brought 
his  money  and  all  considered  it  a  good 
joke,  it  was  agreed  to  with  much  mirth. 
So  the  fox  peeled  off  a  piece  of  birch  bark 
which  was  flat  like  a  plate,  and  proceeded 
to  take  up  the  collection. 

He  excused  himself  from  contributing, 
by  saying  that  his  hide  had  always  been 
considered  as  good  as  gold  and  that  he 
would  leave  it  to  the  bear  when  he  was 
done  with  it.  The  bear  grunted  and  said 
that  the  fox  always  was  a  skin  and  that 
he  might  keep  his  old  hide  which  was  too 
small  for  any  self-respecting  bear. 

When  the  plate  was  passed  to  the  coon 
he  said  that  he  had  four  quarters  with 
him,  but  as  they  had  always  been  kept  in 
the  raccoon  family  he  thought  they  might 
better  remain  there. 

Chucky  grinned  at  the  sight  of  the 
birch  bark  plate  and  said  if  he  had  any- 


JO     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

thing  with  him  he  would-chuck  it  in,  but 
as  he  had  not,  the  fox  must  try  the  next 
gent. 

The  otter  sat  next  to  chucky,  and  the 
fox  told  him  that  he  ought  to  do  better 
than  chucky  had  done. 

The  otter  smoothed  down  his  satin 
coat,  and  said  that  the  muskrat  and  the 
mink  had  made  a  run  on  the  bank  just 
before  he  came  to  draw  his  money,  and 
he  could  not  get  it,  so  the  fox  smilingly 
passed  on  to  them,  but  these  sleek  little 
scamps  informed  him  that  they  had  no 
change  with  them,  as  they  wore  the  same 
garment  the  whole  year  round. 

The  rabbit  looked  puzzled  when  the 
plate  was  passed  to  him,  but  finally 
managed  to  stammer  that  he  was  always 
short  in  arrears,  as  any  one  could  see  if 
they  looked  behind  him,  so  he  would  have 
to  be  excused. 

Every  one  grinned  when  the  poor 
skunk  was  reached,  for  they  considered 


The  Porcupine's  Quills        71 

that  he  had  no  wit,  and  could  not  excuse 
himself  gracefully,  but  the  skunk  con- 
vulsed the  entire 'school  by  declaring  that 
he  had  only  a  scent  with  him,  and  even 
that  was  bad. 

When  the  laughter  had  ceased  the  bear 
tore  a  splinter  from  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
and  pounding  on  the  ground  with  it, 
commanded  this  foolishness  to  cease. 
Wait  a  moment,  said  the  fox  politely,  we 
have  not  heard  from  our  friends  in  the 
trees. 

"Friend  wood  duck,  do  you  wish  to  con- 
tribute to  the  generous  collection  that  we 
are  taking  up  for  the  bear?" 

"Quack,  quack,"  cried  the  duck,  "I 
have  a  green  back  but  I  don't  want  to 
part  with  it  until  I  am  eaten,  then  who- 
ever gets  me  can  have  it." 

"Honk  honk,"  cried  the  wild  goose.  "I 
have  a  bill  but  I  do  not  want  to  break  it." 

Seeing  that  nothing  was  to  be  obtained 
from  this  stingy  crowd,  the  fox  dropped 


72      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

a  tumblebug  into  the  birch  bark  plate,  and 
placed  it  before  the  bear.  "There,  friend," 
he  said,  "is  a  tumblebug,  for  a  humbug." 
The  bear  aimed  a  terrible  blow  at  the  fox 
but  that  agile  fellow  escaped  to  his  place 
at  the  head  of  the  class  and  school  began. 

The  fox  and  the  coon  carried  off  all 
the  honors  in  spelling,  and  greatly  aston- 
ished the  bear,  as  well  as  themselves. 
There  was  not  a  word  in  the  spelling  book, 
that  they  could  not  spell.  If  they  did  not 
know  the  right  way  to  spell  a  word,  they 
made  up  a  way  that  sounded  very  learned, 
and  as  the  bear  was  ignorant  and  a  bad 
speller  himself,  he  did  not  dare  say  their 
way  was  not  right. 

But  it  was  different  with  poor  chucky, 
for  when  the  bear  came  to  him  he  would 
put  out  a  hard  word  and  no  matter  how 
chucky  spelled  it,  the  bear  always  said 
with  a  deep  growl  that  it  was  wrong. 
But  this  did  not  disturb  chucky,  for  he 
would  grunt  and  say  "That  it  was  not 


The  Porcupine's  Quills        73 

necessary  to  know  how  to  spell,  if  one 
only  had  to  eat  beans  and  live  in  a  hole." 

The  rabbit  disappointed  the  school  with 
his  bad  spelling,  as  every  one  knew  that  he 
was  really  very  bright.  When  the  bear 
scolded  him  roundly  for  it,  he  replied  that 
he  could  spell  as  well  as  either  the  fox 
or  the  coon,  but  if  he  did  his  best  he  would 
have  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  class  with 
the  fox,  and  would  get  eaten  up  for  his 
pains. 

The  poor  porcupine  could  not  even 
spell  his  own  name,  which  was  partly  the 
misfortune  of  having  a  long  one,  but 
aside  from  that  he  was  really  the  dunce  of 
the  entire  class.  He  was  besides  a  very 
shy  little  fellow  and  not  inclined  to  either 
claw  or  bite,  and  as  he  had  no  quills  at  this 
time,  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  all. 

He  might  always  have  been  the  same 
shy,  unprotected  little  fellow,  had  not  the 
rabbit  discovered  the  needle  peddler  asleep 
beside  the  road  one  day  and  robbed  his 


74     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

pack  of  several  packages  of  needles. 
These  he  took  to  the  bear,  and  suggested 
a  plan  for  improving  the  porcupine's  wit. 

There  was  also  some  malice  in  the 
rabbit's  plan  for  the  porcupine  had  shoved 
him  out  of  his  fine  hollow  log  the  winter 
before,  and  ever  since  then  there  had  been 
bad  blood  between  them. 

"Friend  Bear,  worthy  teacher,"  said  the 
rabbit,  "I  have  discovered  a  way  in  which 
we  may  possibly  improve  the  porcupine's 
wits." 

The  bear  put  on  his  spectacles  and  was 
all  attention. 

"Notice  these  packages  of  fine  points," 
continued  the  rabbit.  "Now  my  plan  is 
that  every  time  the  porcupine  misses  a 
word,  you  stick  one  of  these  points  into 
him,  that  all  the  woods  may  know  what 
an  ignorant  fellow  he  is." 

The  bear  fairly  laughed  with  delight, 
and  took  the  points,  promising  to  do  as 
the  rabbit  had  suggested. 


The  Porcupine's  Quills        75 

The  very  first  day  the  poor  porcupine 
had  six  needles  stuck  into  him,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  the  school.  The  next  day 
he  fared  no  better,  nor  did  his  wits  im- 
prove, as  the  number  of  bristling  points 
in  his  hide  grew. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  the  needles  had 
all  been  used  and  the  porcupine  was 
no  brighter  than  the  first  day,  he  had 
grown  to  be  a  strange  sight,  for  every 
portion  of  his  body  with  the  exception  of 
a  small  strip  along  his  belly,  was  bristling 
with  needles.  But  he  bore  it  bravely, 
while  the  rest  of  the  wood  folks  made 
sport  of  him,  asking  him  if  he  had  not 
better  start  a  sewing  society. 

But  all  the  time  the  porcupine  had  been 
nursing  his  wrath,  and  making  a  plan  all 
his  own.  When  the  last  needle  had  been 
stuck  into  him,  the  porcupine  declared  that 
he  had  had  enough  of  the  school  and  was 
going  to  quit.  He  made  a  very  bright 
little  speech  on  this  occasion,  in  which  he 


76      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

showed  that  he  was  not  so  stupid  as  they 
had  thought. 

"Friends,"  said  the  porcupine,  standing 
forth  in  front  of  the  class  that  all  might 
see  him.  "For  weeks  I  have  borne  your 
jeers  and  insults,  because  of  this  spiteful 
joke  of  the  rabbit's.  Now  we  have  come 
to  the  end  of  the  needles,  and  of  my 
patience  as  well ;  but  with  all  my  stupidity 
I  still  maintain  there  are  many  fine  points 
about  me."  This  sally  of  the  porcupine's 
brought  a  ripple  of  mirth  from  the  school 
which  the  bear  silenced  with  a  frown. 

"Now,"  continued  the  porcupine,  "I  am 
going  down  to  the  brook  and  sharpen  the 
outer  end  of  each  of  these  needles  until  it 
is  as  sharp  as  the  point  that  quivers  in  my 
flesh.  When  I  have  finished  I  will  defy 
any  one  of  you,  even  that  old  humbug  the 
bear,  to  so  much  as  lay  a  paw  upon  me. 
Henceforth,"  concluded  the  porcupine,  in 
his  deepest  tones,  "my  motto  shall  be: 
'Nemo  me  impune  lacessit;'  a  very  free 


The  Porcupine's  Quills        77 

translation  of  which  is,  'Hit  me  if  you 
dare.' '  Then  rattling  his  many  quills 
the  porcupine  shambled  off  to  the  brook 
to  carry  out  his  threat  and  no  one  dared 
molest  him. 

To  this  very  day  he  goes  up  and  down  in 
the  ancient  woods  unmindful  of  his  many 
enemies  well  guarded  by  his  panoply  of 
spears  and  his  motto  still  is:  "Nemo  me 
impune  lacessit"  ("Hit  me  if  you  dare"). 


THE  STORY  OF  WILLOW 
BROOK 


CHAPTER  III 
The  Story  of  Willow  Brook 

1  HE  boy  with  a  dinner  pail  sat  on  the 
end  of  a  little  rustic  bridge,  dangling  his 
bare  feet  over  the  cool  water  and  listening 
to  the  pleasant  murmur  of  the  stream. 

Above,  and  about  him  was  a  canopy  of 
willow  and  alder  bushes,  and  beneath  was 
a  deep  trout  haunted  pool.  An  occa- 
sional sunbeam  pierced  the  green  coverlet 
of  alder  and  willow  and  fell  upon  the  rip- 
pling, dimpling  water.  Where  it  slanted 
down  through  the  green  it  was  a  pencil  of 
gold,  but  where  it  touched  the  water  it 
broke  into  many  rainbow  hues. 

A  dragon  fly  with  jewelled  eyes  and 
iridescent  wings  hummed  viciously 
through,  under  the  bridge,  causing  the 
boy  to  draw  up  his  feet  quickly.  He  had 

81 


82      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

a  horror  of  dragon  flies,  because  he  shared 
with  other  small  boys  that  queer  super- 
stition, about  the  dragon  fly  sewing  up  the 
ears  of  those  who  angered  him.  The  boy 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  the  bright 
colored  insect  really  possessed  that  power 
or  not,  but  there  was  just  enough  mystery 
about  the  legend  to  make  it  awesome. 

A  wood  thrush  perched  in  the  alders 
almost  within  hands  reach,  and  poured 
forth  a  wonderful  song.  Further  down 
the  stream  a  catbird  mimicked  the  song 
exactly  and  then  squawled  derisively. 

As  the  boy  sat  upon  the  bridge  leaning 
against  the  post  at  one  end,  his  cap  on 
the  planks  beside  him,  with  the  sweet  smell 
of  fern  and  flag,  and  pungent  willow  in 
his  nostrils,  the  spirit  of  the  waters 
touched  his  ears  with  a  magic  reed,  and  he 
heard  new  tones  in  the  song  of  the  stream 
and  at  last  understood  its  gurgling  and 
prattling  as  he  had  never  done  before. 

At  first  he  understood  only  a  part  of 


Willow  Brook  83 

what  the  rivulet  was  saying,  but  finally 
his  heart  was  opened  and  the  language  of 
the  waters  was  made  plain. 

"I  am  willow  brook,"  the  little  stream 
began,  "and  I  am  older  than  you  can  pos- 
sibly imagine.  Many  a  stream  goes  dry 
and  is  lost  because  the  timber  is  cut  off 
near  its  source,  or  the  land  is  drained,  but 
very  few  new  streams  are  formed.  So 
the  streams  are  older  than  anything  made 
by  man,  older  than  the  oldest  trees  that 
have  stood  for  centuries,  and  almost  as  old 
as  the  wrinkled  hills. 

"If  you  would  get  some  idea  of  how  old 
I  am  just  follow  me  back  by  a  score  of 
bridges,  and  as  many  meadows,  by  half  a 
dozen  mill  ponds  and  as  many  water 
wheels,  through  deep  forests  and  over 
jagged  cliffs,  to  the  place  of  my  begin- 
ning, which  is  far  up  on  the  mountain 
side. 

"There  you  will  find  a  seam  in  the  solid 
rock  from  which  gush  the  living  waters. 


84     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

A  foot  or  two  below  is  a  basin  holding 
several  gallons  of  water. 

"At  the  time  when  some  upheaval,  or 
perhaps  it  was  the  frost,  broke  the  rock 
open,  and  I  gushed  forth,  there  was  no 
basin  to  hold  my  pure  stream.  I  made 
the  basin  with  my  own  gentle  lapping. 
If  you  were  to  pour  water  upon  a  rock 
for  your  entire  lifetime  you  probably  could 
not  see  that  you  had  worn  away  the  rock ; 
but  I  with  my  constant  dripping  have 
made  this  deep  broad  basin.  I  do  not 
measure  time  in  years  and  so  do  not  know 
how,  long  ago  the  rock  opened  and  I  began 
work  upon  the  basin,  but  many  times  the 
forest  about  me  has  fallen  beneath  the 
tooth  of  time  while  I  worked  away  at  my 
task.  Long,  long  before  the  white  man 
ever  set  foot  upon  this  continent  the  red 
man  used  to  come  to  my  basin  to  drink. 

"In  those  days  I  was  called  the  'fount  of 
healing.'  There  were  many  substances 
in  the  rock  from  which  I  sprung  that  had 


Willow  Brook  85 

medicinal  qualities,  such  as  sulphur  and 
iron,  which  purify  and  renew  the  blood. 
Some  of  these  qualities  I  have  lost,  as  the 
iron  and  the  sulphur  are  nearly  all  washed 
from  the  rock,  but  I  am  still  the  living 
water  full  of  sweet,  healing  qualities. 

4 'In  those  old  days  when  the  ancient  for- 
est was  unbroken,  and  primeval  wilder- 
ness and  grandeur  was  about  me,  the  doe 
led  her  little  dapple  fawn  to  the  bank  and 
drank  of  me.  The  woodcock  and  the 
jacksnipe  reared  their  young  upon  my 
bank,  and  bored  for  worms  in  the  loam 
that  I  cast  up.  The  wood  duck  led  forth 
her  fledglings  to  my  bosom,  and  was  not 
afraid. 

"Often  the  red  man  came  to  my  deep 
pools  for  fish  and  I  gave  him  plenty,  for 
then  the  streams  swarmed  with  fish.  In 
those  sweet  old  days  I  was  wild  and  free, 
for  I  had  not  been  dammed  and  harnessed 
to  do  the  work  of  men. 

"How  well  I  remember  the  first  dam 


86     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

that  checked  my  course  and  how  I  have 
drudged  ever  since  at  that  hateful  mill. 
One  day  the  new,  pale  faced  man  who  was 
a  stranger  in  the  great  woods  came  to  my 
banks  and  began  felling  trees  at  the  lower 
end  of  a  little  valley  and  almost  before 
I  had  guessed  their  design  they  had  en- 
tirely checked  my  course.  How  angry  I 
was  to  be  stopped  in  this  way.  I  knew 
that  many  pools  and  waterfalls  below 
would  dry  up  if  I  tarried,  but  work  away 
as  I  would,  I  could  find  no  escape  through 
this  wall  that  men  had  placed  in  my  way. 

"At  first  I  sought  to  go  under  the  dam, 
or  through  some  of  the  many  small  cracks 
that  had  been  left  in  the  structure.  But 
there  was  no  passage  under  the  strong 
dam,  and  the  holes  were  soon  filled  with 
wash  from  the  stream  and  I  was  left  fret- 
ting in  confinement. 

"Then  I  sought  to  go  round  the  ends 
of  the  dam,  but  man  had  builded  it  long 
and  strong  and  as  it  is  one  of  the  laws  of 


Willow  Brook  87 

my  being  that  I  cannot  flow  uphill,  I  soon 
found  that  I  could  not  go  round,  so  I  set 
back  upstream,  making  a  broad  deep  pool 
and  abiding  my  time.  If  I  was  not 
strong  enough  to  cope  with  this  artifice 
now  I  might  be  later  on.  But  the  sur- 
face of  the  pond  near  the  dam  was  cov- 
ered with  froth  for  I  foamed  and  fretted 
at  being  held. 

"I  had  never  before  been  checked  so  ef- 
fectively. Once  the  beaver  had  dammed 
my  course,  but  had  finally  concluded  that 
my  current  was  too  swift  and  had  sought 
another  stream. 

"Finally  after  about  a  week,  I  had  filled 
the  dam  full  to  the  top  and  I  knew  that 
my  liberty  was  near  at  hand.  So  one 
morning  without  as  much  as  saying,  by 
your  leave,  I  tumbled  over  the  dam  with 
a  great  roar,  and  went  laughing  on  my 
way.  \ 

"How  glad  the  pools  and  the  meadows 
below  were  to  see  me.  They  had  thought 


Field  and  Forest  Friends 

I  had  lost  my  way,  and  were  nearly  dried 
up  with  grief.  The  meadows  had  lost 
their  greenness  and  freshness,  and  many 
of  the  shallow  pools  were  nearly  dry. 
The  fish  had  fared  hard,  and  some  of  my 
choice  clumps  of  lily-pads  were  dead. 
But  everything  took  on  a  new  beauty 
when  I  appeared  and  this  helped  me  to 
realize  how  important  I  was  after  all. 
But  not  all  of  my  water  escaped  over 
the  top  of  the  dam,  for  man  had  fashioned 
a  long  dark  tunnel  underground  and  part 
of  my  flow  went  through  that. 

"At  the  end  of  this  tunnel  was  a  queer 
round  box,  into  which  I  rushed,  making  it 
go  round  and  round,  but  I  finally  escaped, 
all  white  and  foaming  with  anger. 

"Sometimes  the  passage  leading  to  the 
tunnel  was  shut,  but  much  of  the  time  it 
was  open. 

"When  I  rushed  into  this  queer  box  and 
sent  it  spinning  round  and  round,  it 
turned  other  round  things,  and  there  was 


Willow  Brook  89 

a  great  humming  and  roaring  in  the  house 
above. 

"Finally  I  understood  what  an  impor- 
tant work  I  was  doing  in  this  mill,  which 
ground  the  grist  for  many  miles  around, 
then  I  was  glad  that  I  could  help.  Some 
days  I  was  obliged  to  turn  the  wheels  all 
day  long,  but  it  made  many  people  glad. 

"This  was  the  first  of  a  dozen  dams  that 
were  built  upon  my  course  and  finally  I 
was  made  to  do  many  kinds  of  work.  I 
not  only  ground  corn  and  wheat,  but 
sawed  logs  and  turned  the  loom  that  made 
cloth  to  keep  men  and  women  warm. 
Mine  has  been  a  useful  life,  ever  since  the 
rock  was  cleft  and  I  spouted  forth  into 
the  light  of  day. 

"After  the  white  man  came,  the  red 
man,  the  deer  and  the  great  moose  soon 
ceased  to  frequent  my  banks. 

"Also  the  geese  and  ducks  became  less 
numerous.  But  I  still  possess  much  that 
is  interesting  to  one  who  loves  the  sound  of 


90      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

running  water,  and  the  fragrance  of  sweet 
flag  and  water  lilies. 

"Every  autumn  the  speckled  trout 
swims  far  up  my  winding  way  to  my  many 
branches,  to  spawn.  The  male  trout 
scoops  out  a  hole  where  the  female  lays  her 
eggs.  Then  they  are  covered  up  and  left 
to  hatch,  when  the  spring  sun  shall  warm 
the  water  sufficiently. 

"In  the  springtime  I  am  the  nursery  of 
many  kinds  of  spawn.  The  trout  and  the 
red  fin,  the  dace  and  the  bullhead.  The 
great  green  bullfrog  and  the  lizard,  and 
many  small  crustaceans  are  all  cradled  in 
my  current. 

"Each  mossy  stone,  and  each  sandy 
shallow  is  a  hatchery.  Then  all  my  spar- 
kling current  teems  with  life. 

"While  the  rich  larvse,  shining  like  gold, 
feeds  all  lower  forms  of  life. 

"In  the  springtime  the  cowslip  unfolds 
her  chalice  of  gold  above  me  and  the  sweet 
flag  and  the  cat-tail  again  put  on  their 


Willow  Brook  91 

green.  Then  water  grasses  and  willows, 
blossom,  and  my  banks  are  fragrant  and 
sweet  with  the  glad  new  life. 

"Late  in  June  the  water  lily  unfolds  its 
spotless  innocence  and  makes  fragrant  my 
deep  pools.  Then  the  wood  duck,  the 
sandpiper,  the  woodcock  and  the  bittern 
lead  forth  their  young,  and  my  banks  are 
a  nursery  for  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

"Little  children  too,  love  to  sport  in  my 
shallows,  and  catch  shiners  and  polly- 
wogs.  Men  and  boys  seek  me  and  dangle 
their  lines  in  my  depths,  angling  for  my 
speckled  trout  and  the  whole  countryside 
for  many  miles  around  is  glad  because 
they  know  Willow  Brook. 

"Many  a  great  lesson  of  life  I  teach,  if 
men  would  only  heed  my  teachings. 

"I  teach  the  lesson  of  purity  and  clean- 
liness as  no  other  thing  in  nature  does. 
To-day  you  may  fill  me  with  unclean 
things,  but  to-morrow  I  will  run  as  sweet 
and  pure  as  ever.  No  matter  how  bright 


92      Field  and  Forest  Friends 

the  stars  are  they  can  always  find  their 
reflection  in  my  bosom.  I  teach  the  les- 
son of  industry,  for  I  am  never  idle.  I 
turn  the  mill  that  feeds  the  world.  I 
water  the  meadow,  enrich  the  barren  places 
of  earth.  I  lave  and  feed  the  roots  of 
plants  and  trees  and  make  my  world 
fresh  and  glad. 

"I  never  go  backward  as  men  often  do, 
but  my  motto  is  always  onward,  towards 
deeper  and  broader  things.  I  am  always 
stronger  to-day  than  I  was  yesterday. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  being  lost  or  for- 
gotten, even  though  I  mingle  with  larger 
streams  and  am  seemingly  lost.  My 
water  drops  are  still  there  doing  their 
little  part.  Even  though  I  at  last  mingle 
with  the  great  ocean,  with  the  current  of 
a  thousand  streams,  yet  will  I  return  to 
the  cloud,  and  sing  through  the  meadow 
again.  Again  will  the  cowslip  and  the 
lily  open  their  hearts  at  my  touch  and  the 
meadow  be  glad  at  my  coming. 


Willow  Brook  93 

"I  cannot  linger  for  longer  even  under 
this  rustic  old  bridge,  where  the  willow 
and  the  alder  greet  me  and  all  whisper 
for  me  to  stay, 

"  'But  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever.' ' 


A  LITTLE  DAPPLE  FOOL 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  Ldttle  Dapple  Fool 

1  HE  misty  morn  hung  low  on  the  east- 
ern hilltops  and  the  earth  waited  expect- 
antly for  the  dawn  of  day.  The  first 
evidence  of  its  coming  had  been  a  long  low 
fleecy  cloud  that  hung  like  a  curtain  over 
the  hilltops.  At  first  the  cloud  had  been 
cold  like  a  shroud  with  not  even  a  sug- 
gestion of  warmth,  but  gradually  tints  of 
pink  and  saffron  had  crept  into  its  centre 
and  the  whole  had  been  transfused  with 
a  wonderful  luminosity  that  prescienced 
the  morning  sunbeams. 

Now  it  vibrated  and  trembled  in  the 

balance,  half  vapor  and  half  light,  like  a 

nicely  adjusted  scale  which  would  turn  in 

either  direction  at  the  slightest  touch. 

Suddenly,  as  though  by  magic,  the  veil 

97 


gS     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

parted,  the  pink  and  saffron  grew  and 
deepened  in  intensity  and  the  rotund  smil- 
ing face  of  the  sun  peeped  through  the 
gossamer  veil  and  all  the  birds  in  the  tree- 
tops  set  up  a  great  chirping  and  twitter- 
ing; the  squirrels  chattered,  and  all  the 
four-footed  creatures  became  vocal,  each 
after  its  kind. 

This  was  the  morning  greeting  of  the 
furred  and  feathered  folks  to  the  warm 
sun  whose  coming  cheered  and  gladdened 
them. 

An  hour  before  a  dainty  doe,  whose 
swollen  udders  proclaimed  her  a  mother, 
had  gone  down  into  the  valley,  stepping 
lightly  and  daintily,  as  does  her  kind,  in 
search  of  her  own  breakfast. 

The  little  dappled  fawn,  whom  she  had 
left  hidden  in  the  top  of  a  fallen  tree, 
pulled  upon  her,  for  this  was  her  first  year 
of  motherhood,  and  she  was  as  ravenous 
as  a  wolf. 

But  there  was  plenty  of  good  feed  in 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool         99 

the  valley  and  as  the  deer  wer,e  protected 
by  law,  there  was  little  danger  in  her  go- 
ing. So  fearless  had  the  deer  become  of 
their  natural  enemy,  man,  that  her  mate, 
the  proud,  heavy  antlered  buck,  who  had 
lived  in  and  about  the  mountain  for  sev- 
eral years,  had  driven  a  man  out  of  his 
own  garden  that  spring  and  he  frequently 
grazed  in  the  neighboring  pastures  with 
the  cattle. 

The  little  dapple  fawn  was  asleep  when 
his  mother  had  left,  but  the  lesson  neces- 
sary to  his  safety  had  been  faithfully 
taught  him  and  the  instinct  of  his  ancestors 
was  in  his  veins. 

He  was  concealed  in  the  very  thickest 
part  of  the  treetop  and  his  mother  had  to 
make  a  great  jump  to  reach  him  without 
trampling  down  the  boughs  and  thus  be- 
tray their  whereabouts. 

Presently  he  saw  bright  pencils  of  light 
streaming  through  his  treetop  and  the 
birds  began  singing  in  the  woods  about 


1OO     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

as  though  they  would  split  their  throats. 
Then  he  knew  that  it  was  daylight  and 
that  his  mother  would  soon  be  back. 

With  the  coming  of  the  sunbeams  the 
scent  of  the  pine  needles  was  quickened 
into  life,  and  a  dozen  wonderful  fra- 
grances stirred  into  being  upon  the  puffs 
of  the  fresh  morning  breeze.  All  nature 
seemed  new  and  vital,  revived  and  quick- 
ened by  the  sparkling  dewdrops  that 
trembled  in  the  chalice  of  each  wild  flower 
and  which  gemmed  the  most  obnoxious 
weed  as  well. 

There  was  a  chink  between  the  foliage 
of  the  fallen  treetop  through  which  the 
fawn  often  amused  himself  by  staring  with 
mild,  wide-open  eyes.  Now,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  his  mother,  he  fell  to  watching  the 
life  about  him  through  his  small  window 
in  the  green  plumes  of  the  fallen  tree. 

Presently,  something  caught  his  eye 
that  arrested  his  attention  and  held  it  with 
a  fearful  fascination  that  he  could  not 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       101 

shake  off.  Though  it  terrified  him  for 
some  reason  to  look  at  what  he  saw,  yet 
the  sight  held  him,  and  he  could  not  even 
shut  his  eyes. 

A  few  rods  down  the  mountain  side  a 
great,  gray  cat  was  creeping  stealthily 
through  the  woods,  stopping  every  now 
and  then,  with  one  paw  upraised,  to  listen 
and  to  test  the  wind. 

This  cat,  like  the  doe  down  in  the  valley, 
was  a  wild  mother,  and  the  pangs  of 
hunger  gnawed  at  her  vitals.  Three 
blind  kittens  in  a  hollow  fallen  basswood 
were  pulling  upon  her  strength,  and  it 
needed  all  her  natural  cunning  to  feed 
herself  and  incidentally  her  kittens. 

The  wind  was  blowing  the  scent  of  the 
hidden  fawn  in  the  treetop  straight  away 
from  her,  but  it  blew  the  strong  body  scent 
of  the  cat  full  in  the  fawn's  widely  ex- 
tended nostrils.  He  had  never  smelled 
anything  like  it  before  and  some  wild  in- 
stinct told  him  that  it  was  a  fearful  scent, 


1O2     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

fraught  with  danger  to  helpless,  hiding 
things. 

A  strong  impulse  was  on  him  to  bell 
wildly  for  his  mother,  whom  he  felt  sure, 
would  come  running  and  drive  away  this 
fearful  prowler.  But  silence  had  been 
one  of  the  lessons  his  wild  mother  had  en- 
joined, so  he  stifled  his  terror,  and  lay 
with  tense,  quivering  muscles,  while  the 
great  cat  drew  nearer  and  nearer. 

At  last,  the  hunting  wildcat  crept  to 
within  ten  paces  of  the  treetop  and  stood 
watching  and  listening,  testing  the  wind, 
with  all  her  nerves  intent  upon  discover- 
ing game.  She  had  not  even  scented  the 
fawn  as  the  wind,  which  was  strong,  blew 
directly  away  from  her,  but  she  had 
noticed  deer  signs  and  knew  that  a  doe 
had  been  that  way  this  morning. 

The  fawn  staring  wide-eyed  through 
his  chink  in  the  foliage  lay  as  still  as 
death,  but  his  eyes  were  fastened  intently 
upon  the  intruder. 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       103 

The  great  cat  looked  doubtfully  this 
way  and  that  but  nothing  seemed  stirring 
in  this  quarter.  She  sat  down  on  her  stub 
of  a  tail  to  consider  which  thicket  to  hunt 
next.  The  heaviness  of  her  night's  sleep 
had  not  been  entirely  thrown  off  for  she 
had  just  come  from  her  lair,  so  she  opened 
her  great  mouth,  showing  her  ferocious 
visage  at  its  fiercest,  and  yawned. 

To  the  little  watcher  peeping  through 
his  window  in  the  treetop,  this  was  the  last 
straw.  It  filled  him  with  uncontrollable 
terror.  With  a  pitiful  bell  of  fear,  he 
bounded  from  the  treetop  and  ran  wildly 
down  the  mountain  side,  fear  lending 
wings  to  his  hoofs. 

Probably  a  more  astonished  wildcat 
never  stood  on  the  mountain  side  than  the 
old  huntress.  But  her  flash  of  astonish- 
ment was  instantly  swept  away  by  her 
primitive  instinct  of  the  hunt. 

The  fleeing  fawn  had  not  taken  three 
jumps  when  she  was  after  him,  springing 


104     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

twice  to  his  once,  and  overhauling  him 
rapidly. 

Half  a  dozen  rods  further  down  the 
hillside,  in  the  peaceful  aisles  of  the  tran- 
quil woods,  where  the  birds  sang  and  the 
dew  sparkled  on  the  grass,  the  helpless 
dappled  creature  was  borne  to  earth. 

With  a  mighty  bound  the  wildcat 
landed  fairly  upon  his  back  and  he  went 
down,  almost  without  a  struggle,  and  the 
cat's  powerful  jaws  soon  silenced  his  piti- 
ful bleating. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  dragging 
the  lifeless  carcass  further  down  the  hill- 
side that  she  might  hide  it  in  a  deep 
thicket,  where  the  prowling  fox,  and  the 
crow,  and  owls,  should  not  find  it. 

A  trail  of  broken-down  ferns  and  weeds 
marked  their  going,  and  bloodspots  spar- 
kled among  the  dewdrops. 

The  little  fawn  had  paid  the  penalty 
for  disobedience,  the  price  that  is  always 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       105 

exacted  in  the  wild.  But  how  natural, 
when  viewed  in  our  light,  had  been  his 
conduct.  He  had  been  overcome  by  a 
nameless  terror  and  had  fled  before  it, 
just  as  you  or  I  would  probably  have 
done.  But  in  the  woods,  where  nearly  all 
creatures  hunt  and  are  hunted,  there  had 
been  no  condoning  his  act.  His  little  life 
had  been  the  forfeit. 

How  pitiless  and  cruel  this  law  would 
seem  among  human  beings  who  lived  in 
the  light  of  reason  and  have  intelligence, 
as  well  as  instinct,  to  guide  them. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  the  wild 
mother  returned,  something  told  her  from 
afar  that  all  was  not  well  with  her  little 
one.  Was  it  mother  love  that  made  her 
so  keen  to  see  danger  for  her  offspring? 
She  came  running  half  fearfully  to  the 
treetop  and  jumped  into  the  fawn's  hid- 
ing-place as  usual,  but  it  was  empty. 

With  a  pitiful  bell  of  wounded  mother 


106     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

love,  she  sprang  out  again,  and  ran  fran- 
tically hither  and  thither,  her  terror  and 
frenzy  growing  each  minute. 

Into  every  thicket  she  peered  wild- 
eyed  and  helpless. 

The  great  cat  heard  her  running  fran- 
tically by  her  lair  as  she  lay  licking  her 
chops  and  purring  contentedly  over  her 
blind  kittens.  Her  belly  was  full,  her 
milk  would  flow  freely  now  and  there 
would  be  no  more  hunger  in  the  cat  family 
for  several  days. 

A  farmer  who  was  hoeing  corn  in  a  dis- 
tant meadow  saw  a  doe  come  galloping 
across  the  fields,  as  though  all  the  hounds 
in  the  country  were  after  her. 

She  came  up  close  to  him  and  stretched 
her  head  over  the  fence,  asking  with  great, 
dumb  sorrowing  eyes  and  with  a  pitiful 
moan,  "have  you  seen  my  little  one?" 

At  first,  the  farmer  wondered  what  it 
all  meant  but  as  he  had  laid  his  only  child 
beneath  the  daisies  and  buttercups  that 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       107 

year,  he  understood  the  look  in  the  doe's 
eyes. 

"It's  too  durn  bad,"  he  said  sympa- 
thetically. "I  know  just  how  you  feel, 
I  have  been  there  myself.  It  must  be  that 
beastly  bobcat  that  was  tracking  about  on 
the  late  snows  last  spring.  When  I  get 
time  I  will  see  if  I  can  settle  this  score 
with  the  big,  gray  cat." 

Soon  the  doe  turned  and  trotted  back  to 
the  mountain.  All  day  long  she  wan- 
dered to  and  fro,  searching  for  her  lost 
fawn.  Into  every  thicket  and  deep  dell 
she  penetrated  in  her  vain  quest.  All 
night  long  her  pitiful  belling  could  be 
heard  vying  with  the  moaning  of  the  wind 
in  the  treetops,  in  a  solemn  dirge  of 
misery. 

The  following  day  she  appeared  in  the 
village  street,  trotting  along  like  a  pet 
lamb  or  a  dog.  Her  great  distress  had 
dulled  all  her  usual  sense  of  fear.  The 
dogs  yelped  unheeded  at  her  heels  and  she 


io8     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

feared  not  the  children  that  flocked  about 
to  see  her.  But  of  all  she  asked  the  same 
question  with  her  wide-staring,  sorrow- 
smitten  eyes. 

Often  she  trotted  into  the  yards  and 
came  nosing  at  doors  or  windows  to  see  if 
any  trace  of  her  offspring  could  be 
found. 

Did  she  miss  the  butting  of  the  soft 
muzzle  at  her  udders,  and  the  soft  rubbing 
of  the  dapple  coat  against  her  side?  If 
you  had  looked  into  her  eyes  you  would 
hav»e  known. 

Up  and  down,  day  after  day,  she  went, 
searching  in  the  deep  depths  of  the  tam- 
arack swamp,  and  among  the  laurel,  and 
on  the  high  mountain  top  among  the  scrub 
spruces. 

The  wild  bobcat  noted  her  wanderings 
and  licked  her  chops  contentedly.  This 
anxiety  would  make  the  doe  heedless  of 
herself,  and  some  night  she  would  drop  on 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       log 

her  back  from  an  overhanging  limb  and 
there  would  be  another  tragedy  on  the 
mountain  side. 

At  last  in  sheer  desperation  the  doe  went 
boldly  into  a  pasture  and  tried  to  adopt  a 
small  calf  that  was  running  with  its 
mother,  but  the  spotted  heifer  would  not 
part  with  it.  With  lowered  horns  she 
drove  the  deer,  again  and  again  from  the 
pasture.  It  was  not  until  the  despairing 
wild  mother  saw  that  this  was  useless  that 
she  desisted. 

Down  in  the  valley  was  a  long,  smooth 
road  leading  away  and  away  through  un- 
known fields.  It  was  very  straight  for  a 
road  and  the  course  was  marked  by  two 
horizontal  sticks  with  short  .cross  sticks 
at  regular  intervals.  The  sorrow-haunted 
doe  discovered  it  one  day  in  her  wander- 
ings, and  followed  it  feverishly.  Or- 
dinarily she  would  have  shunned  it  as 
one  of  the  dangerous  devices  of  man,  but 


no    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

now  when  all  natural  search  had  failed, 
she  chose  an  artificial  pathway  and  fol- 
lowed it  unceasingly. 

For  half  an  hour  it  led  through  fields 
and  woods  which  were  familiar  to  the  doe, 
but  finally  it  struck  off  into  the  mountains 
often  making  deep  cuts,  to  save  climbing 
the  foothills. 

She  was  in  the  middle  of  one  of  these 
deep  cuts,  trotting  hopelessly,  yet  untir- 
ingly along  when  the  hilltops  became  vocal 
with  a  hoarse,  wild  cry.  It  was  louder 
than  the  baying  of  many  hounds. 

At  first,  the  half-dazed  creature  thought 
it  came  from  in  front,  so  she  turned  and 
fled  back  along  the  way  that  she  had 
come.  But  soon  a  deep  rumbling,  like 
the  voice  of  thunder,  came  from  that  direc- 
tion, and  she  turned  and  retraced  her 
steps. 

Then  the  hilltops  began  shrieking  and 
reverberating  again,  and  the  deep  thunder 
seemed  to  come  from  all  about  her — even 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       111 

the  ground  under  her  hoofs  quaked  with 
fear. 

The  bewildered  doe  sought  to  spring  up 
the  side  of  the  deep  path  and  flee  in  a  new 
direction,  just  as  she  would  have  doubled 
with  the  hounds  upon  her  track,  but  her 
spring  was  not  equal  to  the  great  height, 
and  she  fell  back  upon  her  haunches. 

Suddenly,  from  around  a  bend  in  the 
trail,  there  rushed  a  great,  roaring,  thun- 
dering, shrieking  monster,  many  times 
larger  than  a  moose  and  its  breath  was 
like  a  great  cloud,  and  white  as  the  breath 
of  a  deer  in  winter.  It  shrieked  and  thun- 
dered, rumbled  and  roared,  clanged  and 
hissed,  and  all  the  time  rushed  forward 
like  the  hurricane  when  the  winds  go  mad. 

Half  paralyzed  with  fear,  but  with  the 
law  of  self-preservation  still  strong  within 
her,  the  doe  fled  in  front  of  this  mon- 
strosity, but  she  was  weak  from  many  days' 
fasting,  for  she  had  not  touched  browse 
since  the  loss  of  her  fawn.  Nearer  and 


112     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

nearer  came  this  mountain  of  fire  and 
steam.  She  could  now  feel  its  breath 
upon  her  straining  flanks.  So  she  doubled 
and  again  sprang  up  the  side  of  the  cut. 
Again  she  fell  back  impotently,  and  the 
train  passed  over  her  hind  quarters  ampu- 
tating both  legs  just  above  the  gambrel 
joints. 

The  train  slowed  down  and  stopped, 
and  the  conductor,  the  brakemen  and  one 
passenger  went  back  to  see  what  damage 
had  been  done. 

They  found  the  wounded  doe  lying  half 
across  the  track  with  blood  streaming 
from  her  amputated  members.  She  was 
moaning  and  panting  like  a  human  crea- 
ture, and  great  tears  of  anguish  were 
coursing  down  her  cheeks. 

"We  must  kill  her,"  said  the  passenger 
decidedly. 

"We  can't,"  replied  the  conductor. 
"There  is  a  fine  of  one  hundred  dollars 
for  killing  a  deer.  I  will  leave  word  at 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool       113 

the  next  station  for  the  game  warden  to 
come  back  and  attend  to  it." 

"And  leave  the  poor  thing  here  panting 
and  gasping  in  anguish  all  that  time?" 
cried  the  passenger  hotly. 

"That's  the  only  thing  to  do,"  replied 
the  brakeman. 

"We  can't  stay  here  all  day,"  exclaimed 
the  conductor.  "We  have  already  lost 
five  minutes.  Come,  Jim,"  he  said  to  the 
brakeman,  "we  must  hurry." 

The  two  started  back  to  the  train  on  a 
run,  but  the  passenger  still  stood  over  the 
mortally  wounded  doe. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  called  the  con- 
ductor as  he  swung  on  the  rear  platform 
and  motioned  the  engineer  to  pull  out. 
i  The  passenger  paid  no  attention  to  this 
summons,  but  still  watched  the  wild  mother 
who  lay  gasping  out  her  life  at  his  feet. 

The  engineer  drew  the  throttle,  and  a 
cloud  of  steam  belched  from  the  smoke- 
stack, and  the  wheels  began  to  turn.  The 


114    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

train  had  barely  got  under  way  when  a 
pistol  shot  rang  out  through  the  deep  cut 
and  a  thick  cloud  of  blue  smoke  curled  up 
and  was  lost  in  the  distance. 

"There,"  said  the  passenger,  as  he 
watched  the  doe  stretch  out  in  death,  while 
the  look  of  distress  died  out  in  her  eyes  and 
tranquillity  came  in  its  place,  "I  have  done 
one  good  job  to-day,  though  I  have  lost 
my  train,  and  it  may  cost  me  one  hundred 
dollars;  but  I  do  not  think  that  any  judge 
would  be  fool  enough  to  fine  me  for  a  deed 
like  this." 


THE   FAMILY   OF  BOB-WHITE 


CHAPTER  V 
The  Family  of  Bob-White 

IJLITHE,  cheerful  little  Bob-White  sat 
on  the  top  of  a  barpost  whistling  his 
merry  call,  "bob-white,  bob,  bob-bob- 
white,  bob-white,  bob,  bob-white." 

Bob- White  was  very  well  satisfied  with 
the  whole  world  that  spring  morning,  and 
with  his  own  lot  in  particular,  for  some- 
thing told  him  in  the  plainest  kind  of  lan- 
guage that  spring  had  come.  In  fact  all 
the  birds  that  he  had  seen  this  morning 
had  been  talking  about  it,  and  Bob-White 
knew  just  enough  of  their  language  to 
understand.  What  else  did  blue  bird 
mean  by  his  sweet  "cheerily,  cheerily," 
and  Cock  Robin,  by  his  lusty  "cheerup, 
cheerup."  Still  more  convincing  than 
either  of  these,  was  a  great  noisy  harrow 

117 


n8     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

of  wild  geese  that  swung  rapidly  across 
the  tender  spring  sky,  flinging  afar  to  the 
brown  earth  their  strong  clear  water 
slogan  of  "honk,  honk,  honk." 

Bob- White,  like  the  rest  of  the  quail  in 
the  vicinity,  had  just  passed  through  a 
very  severe  winter,  so  was  it  any  wonder 
that  he  whistled  his  merriest  tune  this 
balmy  morning? 

Each  time  when  he  stopped  whistling 
he  hopped  down  on  the  top  bar  of  the 
gateway  and  strutted  back  and  forth  like 
a  veritable  turkey  cock.  First,  he  would 
extend  one  wing  to  its  full  sweep,  then  the 
other,  and  finally  spreading  both  wings 
and  his  comical  short  tail  he  would  sfrut 
up  and  down  saying  in  his  every  motion, 
"now  if  you  want  to  see  a  fine  bird  just 
look  at  me." 

He  was  not  a  showy  bird,  although  his 
suit  was  neat  and  quite  jaunty.  His  back 
and  shoulders  were  a  combination  of 
brown  and  gray,  while  his  undersides  were 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     119 

lighter.  The  feathers  on  the  top  of  his 
head  were  rather  inclined  to  stand  up  like 
a  pompadour,  and  under  his  throat  was  a 
white  necktie.  The  most  that  could  be 
said  for  such  a  dress  was,  that  it  was  not 
conspicuous,  and  so  was  not  calculated  to 
attract  the  eyes  of  any  of  Bob-White's 
enemies,  such  as  hawks,  owls,  or  men. 

But  Bob- White  was  whistling  for  some- 
thing else  beside  good  spirits  this  morning. 
He  was  whistling  for  a  wife. 

Presently  from  down  across  the  fields 
as  though  in  answer  to  his  calling  came  a 
clear,  "white,  white,  white,"  or  if  you  had 
been  in  a  more  romantic  frame  of  mind 
you  might  have  thought  that  the  clear  low 
whistling  said,  "here,  here,  here." 

Bob- White  heard  it,  and  was  pleased 
with  the  effect  of  his  own  musical  voice,  so 
he  redoubled  his  calls  of  "bob-white,  bob- 
white,"  and  listened  at  regular  intervals 
for  the  musical  "white,  white,  white,"  that 
came  in  return. 


12O     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

When  this  calling  and  answering  had 
gone  on  for  some  time  Bob-White  flew 
away  to  investigate,  and  his  wings  made 
such  a  whirring  and  struck  so  fast  that 
this  fact  alone  proclaimed  him  a  member 
of  the  partridge  family.  He  is  the  small- 
est of  all  the  partridges,  and  is  known  in 
parts  of  the  south  as  the  Virginia  par- 
tridge. 

While  Bob- White  is  making  love  to  a 
shy  lady  quail  down  in  the  thicket,  let  us 
briefly  consider  his  short  life  up  to  this 
morning,  that  you  may  know  why  he  was 
so  glad  spring  had  come,  and  why  the 
answering  call  from  the  thicket  had  been 
so  sweet  to  his  ears. 

The  latter  part  of  May,  the  previous 
spring,  Bob- White  had  been  merely  one  of 
fifteen  eggs  lying  cunningly  concealed  in 
a  nest  made  on  the  ground  under  a  brush 
fence. 

About  the  middle  of  June  all  of  these 
fifteen  eggs  had  begun  to  manifest  signs 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     121 

of  life,  and  in  about  fifteen  minutes  after 
the  first  tiny  bill  appeared,  the  whole 
brood  was  hatched. 

They  were  no  featherless,  hairless, 
gawky  fledglings,  but  bright,  alert  chicks 
fairly  well  clad,  and  as  smart  as  crickets. 

In  a  few  hours  they  were  following 
their  mother  about  picking  up  their  living 
just  as  though  they  had  done  nothing  else 
for  years. 

But  an  evil  fate  had  pursued  the  brood 
from  the  very  day  of  hatching.  When 
they  were  a  week  old  a  weasel  happened 
upon  them  in  the  night,  and  before  their 
vigilant  little  mother  had  been  able  to 
scatter  and  hide  them,  he  sucked  the  blood 
of  three,  and  the  family  was  reduced  to  an 
even  dozen. 

A  grub  or  louse  had  claimed  two  more 
within  another  week,  and  the  family  was 
down  to  ten.  The  next  thief  to  come 
among  them  was  the  sparrow-hawk,  who 
took  one  in  each  claw  at  a  single  swoop, 


122     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

leaving  but  eight;  these  eight,  however, 
lived  until  the  hunting  season  opened  in 
the  autumn,  when  four  of  them  went  into 
a  game  bag  before  they  even  thought  of 
scattering  and  thus  diminishing  their 
peril. 

After  that  ominous  day  they  never 
knew  just  when  the  deafening  banging 
would  begin,  and  they  were  not  left  in 
peace  for  many  days  at  a  time. 

When  the  season  finally  closed,  there 
were  two  chicks  and  one  of  the  old  birds 
left.  Only  three  out  of  seventeen,  the 
original  family. 

In  addition  to  such  bad  luck  as  this  the 
following  winter  had  been  exceptionally 
hard.  The  scattered  grain,  and  the  weed- 
seeds  had  been  covered  by  the  first  snow- 
storm, and  they  did  not  appear  again  un- 
til the  warm  spring  rains  uncovered  the 
brown  earth,  so  the  quail  had  to  depend 
entirely  upon  the  winter  berries  and  buds 
for  sustenance. 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     123 

The  bright  red  berries  of  the  sumac, 
the  bitter-sweet,  and  the  purple  berries  of 
the  Virginia  creeper,  had  stood  them  in 
good  stead.  Also  juniper  and  poison  ivy 
berries  had  furnished  them  many  a  meal. 

When  these  were  all  gone  they  went 
into  the  deep  woods  and  scratched  about 
fallen  logs  for  partridge  berries  or  occa- 
sionally discovered  a  wind-swept  knoll 
where  checkerberries  could  be  found. 

With  such  scant  food  as  this,  and  with 
seed  obtained  from  an  occasional  tall 
weed,  that  stuck  its  friendly  head  above 
the  snow  they  had  managed  to  live  until 
February,  but  finally  even  this  supply 
gave  out,  and  they  resorted  to  their  last 
hope,  and  visited  a  farmyard  in  the 
vicinity. 

Each  day  they  went  to  the  barnyard, 
and  scratched  in  the  dung-heap  for  par- 
ticles of  grain.  It  was  while  feeding  in 
this  manner  that  the  house-cat  took  one, 
and  the  quail  family  was  reduced  to  a  pair. 


124    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

But  they  still  came  to  the  farmyard,  as 
they  could  do  nothing  else. 

Bob-White  and  his  sister  clung  very 
closely  to  one  another  now  they  were  all 
that  was  left  of  the  large  quail  family,  but 
one  night  while  they  were  sleeping  side 
by  side  in  a  tangle  of  bitter-sweet  and  fir 
tree,  a  great  owl  reached  in  his  strong 
talons  and  took  one,  and  Bob- White  was 
left  alone  in  the  great  world. 

But  this  had  happened  only  two  or 
three  weeks  before  the  time  when  our 
story  begins,  and  Bob-White  had  found 
food  in  plenty  shortly  after  the  owl  had 
deprived  him  of  his  companion. 

At  first,  Bob- White  could  not  locate  the 
shy  little  lady  quail  who  had  been  calling 
to  him  from  the  thicket;  but  he  finally 
discovered  her  picking  away  for  dear  life 
at  weed-seed,  just  as  though  breakfast 
was  much  more  to  her  taste  than  love 
making. 

For  a  long  time   she  would  take   no 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     125 

notice  of  him  but  he  strutted  up  and  down 
so  persistently  that  she  finally  looked  up. 
Even  then,  her  manner  plainly  said, 
"Why,  where  in  the  world  did  you  come 
from;  I  did  not  suppose  there  was  a 
bob-white  anywhere  in  this  region?" 
Little  by  little,  Bob-White  gained  her 
goodwill  until  at  last  she  would  let  him 
help  her  scratch  for  weed-seeds.  They 
spent  a  very  pleasant  forenoon  together 
and  the  thing  was  as  good  as  settled. 

The  following  morning,  Bob- White  was 
again  perched  on  his  barpost  whistling 
his  cheery  call-note,  but  when  the  answer 
came  up  clear  from  the  thicket,  "white, 
white,  white,"  and  he  flew  down  to  meet 
his  intended,  sad  to  relate,  another  bob- 
white  was  helping  her  hunt  for  weed-seed. 

Then  her  own  particular  Bob-White 
flew  at  his  rival  and  a  cock  fight  began 
which  would  have  been  most  comical  had 
not  the  combatants  been  so  deadly  in 
earnest.  They  lowered  their  heads  and 


126     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

came  at  each  other  in  true  game-cock  style, 
striking  with  beak  and  wing  and'  some- 
times even  buffeting  one  another  over. 

But  our  own  Bob- White  was  fighting  for 
his  rights,  for  the  admiration  and  affec- 
tion of  his  mate  and  the  nest  they  intended 
to  build,  while  the  other  was  merely  an 
intruder;  so,  having  right  on  his  side,  he 
soon  punished  his  rival  severely  and  he 
flew  away  discomfited. 

When  the  field  was  clear  and  Bob- 
White  had  been  left  conqueror,  he  went  up 
to  his  fickle  wife  and  gave  her  a  savage 
peck  on  the  head  as  much  as  to  say,  "You 
faithless  hussy,  if  it  had  not  been  for  you, 
I  should  not  have  had  all  this  trouble." 

Only  once  more  did  a  rival  dare  to 
make  love  to  Mrs.  Bob-White,  and  then 
the  intruder  was  driven  away  as  before 
and  the  wife  punished  for  her  faithless- 
ness. 

This  honey-moon  lasted  for  about  ten 
days  and  then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bob-White 


The  Family  of  Bob-White     127 

selected  a  place  for  their  nest.  It  was 
under  the  edge  of  an  old  fallen  log,  well 
screened  from  view  and  sheltered  from 
the  rain.  Each  day  for  about  two  weeks 
Mrs.  Boh- White  deposited  an  egg  in  the 
nest,  until  the  number  was  sixteen,  then 
began  her  arduous  task  of  incubation. 

Two  or  three  times  during  that  long 
three  weeks  Mr.  Bob-White  took  his  turn 
upon  the  eggs  for  half  an  hour  while  his 
wife  went  for  a  dust  bath. 

There  are  ornithologists  who  accuse 
Bob- White  of  being  a  bigamist,  but  I  do 
not  believe  that  he  ever  woos  the  second 
wife  until  after  the  first  chicks  have 
hatched,  and  that  might  be  called  a  law- 
ful second  marriage.  I  do  not  doubt, 
however,  but  that  he  would  flirt  with  a 
coquettish  lady  quail  even  while  his  own 
faithful  wife  was  sitting  on  the  eggs  if 
chance  offered. 

About  the  twentieth  of  June  Mrs.  Bob- 
White  appeared,  closely  followed  by  four- 


12&    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

teen  quail  chicks.  She  was  clucking  and 
bristling  like  the  good  little  mother  par- 
tridge that  she  is,  and  each  of  the  tiny 
chicks  was  spry  as  a  cricket.  It  had  not 
been  necessary  for  the  old  birds  to  carry 
food  to  these  nestlings.  After  the  first 
tiny  little  creature  had  picked  his  way 
through  the  shell,  his  lusty  peep  had  set 
all  the  others  to  work  and  in  half  an  hour 
the  whole  brood  had  arrived.  Then, 
when  they  had  dried  and  had  a  little  time 
in  which  to  gain  strength,  they  were  ready 
for  the  world. 

Forth  they  all  came,  the  mother  cluck- 
ing and  bristling  and  the  chicks  scamper- 
ing this  way  and  that,  pecking  at  almost 
invisible  plantlice  and  bugs  and  feeding 
themselves  within  the  same  hour  that  they 
came  from  the  nest. 

For  two  or  three  nights  Mrs.  Bob- 
White  led  them  back  to  the  old  nest,  but 
after  that,  it  was  given  up  and  they  never 
returned  to  it. 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     129 

One  night  when  they  were  about  a 
week  old  Mrs.  Bob- White  led  them  to 
sleep  in  a  little  hollow  under  an  over-hang- 
ing rock.  During  the  night  there  was  a 
terrible  downpour  of  rain  and  the  hollow 
filled  rapidly.  Before  the  young  mother 
could  conduct  her  chicks  to  higher  and 
dryer  ground,  three  were  drowned  in  the 
puddle. 

After  this,  there  were  no  fatalities  in 
the  quail  family  for  nearly  two  months. 
For  the  first  two  weeks  Bob-White  hov- 
ered about  his  family  trying  to  protect 
them  and  giving  his  wife  much  good  ad- 
vice about  bringing  up  children;  but  she 
finally  told  him  that  she  could  get  along 
quite  well  without  him,  and  he  took  her 
at  her  word. 

The  August  moon  hung  large  and 
luminous  above  the  eastern  hills.  There 
was  the  smell  of  ripening  fruit  and  maize 
on  the  summer  night  air  and  the  cricket 
and  the  katy-did  were  singing  in  the 


130    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

grass.  Sweet  corn  was  already  in  the 
milk,  but  the  field  corn  was  not  yet  ripe 
enough  for  the  palate  of  the  fastidious 
raccoon. 

Down  from  the  deep  woods  came  Mr. 
Raccoon  shuffling  and  shambling  like  the 
real  little  bear  that  he  is.  About  his  eyes 
were  two  black  circles  looking  like  spec- 
tacles and  around  the  tip  of  his  nose  was 
a  white  ring.  His  tail  also  was  ringed. 
There  is  not  another  such  suit  as  his  in  the 
entire  wilderness  east  of  the  rocky  moun- 
tains. Out  of  the  woods  he  came  and 
across  the  pasture  he  shuffled,  eager,  alert, 
and  watchful,  often  stopping  to  test  the  air 
and  poke  his  inquisitive  nose  under  a  log  or 
flat  stone. 

Soon  a  fresh  puff  of  night  wind  brought 
him  a  most  exciting  scent.  He  knew  it 
quite  well.  It  was  that  of  a  bevy  of  quail 
in  hiding.  The  old  raccoon  knew  just 
how  they  stood  in  that  circular  bunch  with 
their  tails  all  together  and  their  heads 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     131 

looking  outward,  that  they  might  face  in 
every  direction. 

He  flattened  himself  to  the  ground  and 
crept  forward  on  his  belly  almost  as  still 
as  a  cat.  He  was  no  longer  the  clumsy 
little  bear  but  the  cautious  hunter.  Once 
he  heard  the  bevy  stirring  uneasily  in  their 
sleep  as  though  they  had  knowledge  of 
coming  danger.  Then  he  lay  very  still 
and  waited  until  the  mother  bird's  "erects" 
and  the  soft  peeps  of  the  chickens  had 
ceased.  He  now  crept  forward  again. 
Nearer  and  nearer  he  drew,  going  more 
cautiously  with  each  succeeding  step,  un- 
til at  last  he  was  within  springing  dis- 
tance. He  then  flattened  himself  out  on 
the  ground,  intensified  all  his  muscles 
until  they  were  like  steel  and  with  a  sud- 
den motion  sprang  full  in  the  midst  of  the 
sleeping  bevy. 

Click,  click,  click,  went  his  jaws,  snap- 
ping like  lightning  in  every  direction. 

There  was  the  sudden  whirr  of  many 


132     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

wings  and  a  chorus  of  squeaks,  peeps,  and 
squawks  from  a  dozen  birds  and  in  three 
seconds'  time  the  bevy  were  gone  with  the 
exception  of  two  wounded  birds  who  flut- 
tered feebly  in  the  grass.  But  a  bite 
apiece  from  Mr.  Raccoon  soon  stopped 
their  fluttering.  Then  the  hunter  lay 
down  where,  a  few  minutes  before,  the 
quail  family  had  slept  and  made  his  sup- 
per of  quail,  without  toast. 

August  and  September  came  and  went 
and  the  quail  family  grew  plump  upon 
grain  and  weed-seed  but  the  loss  of 
grain  to  the  farmer  was  more  than  off-set 
by  the  weed-seed  they  destroyed.* 

October  with  its  corn  in  the  shock 
and  golden  pumpkins  and  harvested  grain 
and  fruit  was  with  us  when  another  hunter 
came  down  from  the  great  wood  in  quest 
of  warm  blood.  This  hunter  did  not 

*  It  has  been  estimated  by  the  agricultural  department 
of  the  United  States  that  the  quail  in  Maryland  and 
Virginia  annually  destroy  two  hundred  and  fifty  tons 
of  weed-seed. 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     133 

shuffle  as  the  old  raccoon  had  done,  but  his 
gait  was  a  steady  trot.  When  the  night 
wind  stirred,  bearing  the  delicious  fra- 
grance of  witch-hazel,  one  might  have  no- 
ticed a  musky,  pungent  odor  from  the 
night  prowler.  It  was  Red-Fox,  the  wise 
and  the  witty,  and  a  much  more  successful 
hunter  than  the  old  raccoon. 

He,  too,  got  a  scent  of  quail  down  in 
the  pasture  and  followed  it  eagerly.  His 
step  was  swift  and  sure  and  his  nose  was 
keen.  Swiftly  like  a  dark  shadow  he  ad- 
vanced until  he  located  the  sleeping  quail 
under  an  old  brush  fence.  Then  he  crept 
forward  foot  by  foot  until  he  was  almost 
upon  them,  when  with  a  sudden  spring 
he  darted  into  their  midst. 

Again,  there  was  the  sudden  whirr  of 
many  wings  and  cries  of  fear  and  pain, 
mingled  with  the  rapid  click,  click,  of  the 
fox's  jaws.  When  the  bevy  was  gone  and 
Mr.  Fox  nosed  about  under  the  fence  he 
found  he  also  had  bagged  a  pair  of  quail. 


134    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

No  more  misfortunes  befell  the  quail 
family  until  the  first  day  of  the  open  sea- 
son. Then  a  party  of  sportsmen  with 
dogs  and  guns  drove  them  from  cover  to 
cover,  while  the  guns  cracked  merrily. 
It  was  a  cold,  raw  day  of  scudding  clouds 
and  biting  winds  that  plainly  told  of  com- 
ing winter.  This,  added  to  the  incessant 
roar  of  fire  arms  made  that  day  like  the 
crack  of  doom  to  the  family  of  Bob- 
White. 

Towards  night,  a  biting  sleet  and  rain 
storm  set  in  and  the  hunting  ceased,  but 
the  quail  family  had  been  scattered  in 
every  direction  and  their  friends  at  the 
farmhouse  wondered  if  any  had  survived, 
so  the  old  man  and  small  boy  went  out 
into  the  storm  to  look  for  the  quail.  The 
old  man  went  ahead  with  a  long,  swing- 
ing stride  while  the  small  boy  trotted  after 
him. 

How  cheerless  was  the  sound  of  the  hail 
rattling  upon  the  dead  leaves  and  grass, 


HE  crept  forward  foot  by  foot   until   he  was 
almost  uftnn  him 


almost  upon  him 


The  Family  of  Bob-White     135 

and  the  moaning  of  the  winds  in  the  tree- 
tops!  All  the  joy  and  gladness  seemed 
to  have  departed  from  the  naked,  forsaken 
earth. 

These  two  had  followed  the  fortunes  of 
the  quail  family  from  the  very  first. 
They  had  discovered  the  nest  under  the 
old  log  and  had  visited  it  several  times 
during  incubation.  They  had  fished  the 
three  water  soaked  chicks  out  of  the  pud- 
dle after  the  rainstorm  where  the  folly  of 
their  mother  had  been  only  too  apparent. 

They  had  also  happened  upon  the  re- 
mains of  the  old  raccoon's  supper,  scat- 
tered about  near  that  circle  of  footprints. 
The  depredations  of  Red  Fox  they  had 
likewise  discovered  while  repairing  the 
brush  fence.  They  had  also  seen  the 
quail  many  times  in  neighboring  grain 
fields  and  had  heard  their  cheery  "more- 
wet"  before  each  rainstorm;  so  was  it  any 
wonder  that  their  hearts  were  heavy  to- 
night? 


136    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

The  old  man  vaulted  lightly  over  the 
barway  into  the  pasture  while  the  boy 
crawled  between  the  bars.  They  went  on 
for  fifteen  or  twenty  rods  and  then  crawled 
under  a  clump  of  small  spruces  and  sat 
down  where  the  leaves  were  still  dry. 

Suddenly,  from  their  very  midst,  came 
a  clear  shrill  whistle,  pure  and  sweet  as 
the  note  of  a  piccolo,  "bob-white,  bob- 
white,  bob-bob-white." 

"They  are  right  here  in  the  bush, 
Ben,"  exclaimed  the  boy  in  an  eager  whis- 
per, pulling  excitedly  at  his  companion's 
sleeve. 

The  old  man  chuckled  and  laughed 
softly.  "That  was  me,"  he  whispered. 
"I  had  my  hand  over  my  mouth  so  you 
could  not  tell  where  the  sound  came 
from."  Again  he  repeated  the  musical 
call  and  both  waited  and  listened.  Then, 
faint  and  far  across  the  pasture  land,  like 
an  echo,  came  the  reply,  "bob-white,  bob- 
white,  bob-bob-white." 


The  Family  of  Bob- White     137 

"That's  him,"  whispered  Ben.  "Now 
keep  perfectly  still  and  you  will  hear 
something  worth  while." 

Presently  the  two  watchers  under  the 
little  spruces  heard  the  well-known  whirr 
of  short,  fast  beating  wings,  and  a  second 
later  Bob- White  himself  plumped  down 
under  the  cover  within  two  yards  of  them. 
He  shook  the  wet  from  his  wings,  preened 
his  feathers  for  a  moment  and  then  swell- 
ing out  his  breast,  uttered  his  sweet  call- 
note.  It  was  useless  for  the  old  man  to 
call  now  that  the  real  Bob- White  had 
sounded  his  roll  call  so  they  waited,  and 
listened. 

Again  came  the  low  whistle  from  far 
away  in  the  pasture  land  but  this  time  it 
was  only,  "white,  white,  white."  Soon 
the  swift  whirr  of  beating  wings  was  heard 
and  a  moment  later  the  second  quail 
alighted  under  the  scrub  spruce. 

"Cureet,  cureee,  cur-r,  cure-e-e,"  cried 
Bob-White  in  soft,  quail  words  of  love  and 


138    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

welcome.  "Peep,  pure-e-,  e-e,  e-e,"  re- 
plied the  chicken. 

The  greeting  and  response  were 
scarcely  over  when  another  quail  whirred 
under  the  bush  and  another,  and  still  an- 
other. 

"Cureet,  cure-e-e,  cur-r,  cure-e-e,"  was 
the  salutation  of  Bob- White  to  each  new- 
comer as  they  huddled  together  and  re- 
joiced in  bird  language  that  they  had 
found  one  another  again.  After  a  few 
minutes  they  quieted  down  and  the  lis- 
teners knew  that  they  had  formed  them- 
selves into  the  well-known  bunch  and 
fallen  asleep,  so  they  stole  quietly  away, 
leaving  them  dry  and  comfortable  under 
the  spruce,  but  it  was  only  part  of  the 
family,  Bob- White  and  four  of  his  chicks, 
the  little  hen  and  the  other  four  had  gone 
away  in  the  hunter's  game  bag. 

December  and  January  came  and  went 
and  the  leafless,  flowerless  world  was  in 
the  clutch  of  midwinter.  Day  after  day 


The  Family  of  Bob-White     139 

the  snow  fell  and  the  cold  was  so  intense 
that  sometimes  in  the  deep  woods  the  stout 
heart  of  maple  or  birch  was  cracked 
asunder. 

One  morning,  when  the  small  boy  who 
had  gone  to  the  pasture  that  night  with 
Old  Ben  to  search  for  the  quail  awoke, 
he  found  the  world  ice-clad  and  snow- 
bound and  in  the  clutch  of  a  terrible 
freeze.  The  windows  were  so  clouded 
with  frost  that  he  could  not  see  out  until 
he  had  melted  it  with  his  breath,  but  when 
the  frost  had  been  melted,  the  boy  cried 
out  with  grief,  for  there  upon  the  win- 
dow-sill huddled  close  to  the  glass  was 
the  stiff,  stark  form  of  his  Bob-White. 

He  had  died  with  his  breast  to  the  win- 
dow pane  with  only  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch 
of  transparent  something  between  him 
and  the  warmth  that  would  have  saved 
him.  As  pitilessly  as  the  glacier  grinds 
the  pebble  to  sand  the  great  freeze  had 
pressed  him  against  the  window  until  his 


140    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

stout  little  heart  was  still,  and  then,  as 
though  ashamed  of  what  she  had  done, 
nature  had  shrouded  him  in  a  white  mantle 
of  snow. 

With  difficulty  the  boy  raised  the  win- 
dow and  took  the  dead  quail  in  his  hands. 
Carefully  he  brushed  the  snow  from  his 
gray  brown  coat  and  smoothed  out  his 
ruffled  feathers. 

It  was  a  far  cry  from  that  warm  spring 
morning,  when  he  had  first  seen  him  on 
the  old  barpost  whistling  his  cheery  call, 
to  this  snow-bound  frozen  world  that 
seemed  more  dead  than  alive.  Poor  lit- 
tle Bob- White;  he  had  eluded  the  hawk, 
the  owl  and  the  weasel,  the  fox,  the  rac- 
coon and  the  hunter,  but  the  great  freeze 
had  caught  him,  so  near  and  yet  so  far 
from  cover.  With  a  sigh  the  boy  put  him 
back  in  the  little  snow  grave  on  the  win- 
dow-sill and  shut  the  window.  There  he 
would  let  him  lie  in  his  soft  coverlet  of 
ermine  until  the  great  storm  was  over. 


THE  BUSY  BEE 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  Busy  Bee 

1  HERE  is  no  more  pleasant  recollection 
of  boyhood  and  its  pleasures  than  that  of 
bee  hunting.  I  never  visit  the  country 
in  July  or  August  even  now  without  get- 
ting the  old  fever  to  take  a  bee  box  and 
try  my  luck  again  in  tracking  the  honey- 
bee through  the  blue  sky  to  his  honey 
laden  tree. 

City  bred  people  may  often  have 
wondered  about  the  phrase  "a  bee  line," 
but  they  never  would  had  they  lined 
fugitive  bees  to  their  tree.  Once  the  bee 
has  filled  her  honey  stomach  a  shaft  of 
light  is  not  more  straight  than  the  line  she 
makes  for  the  tree. 

How  full  of  bird  song  and  sunlight,  of 
dew  laden  grass,  and  perfume  of  flowers 

143 


144    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

and  shrubs  are  these  memories  of  bee 
hunting. 

In  boyhood  days,  bare  brown  feet 
brushed  the  dew,  sparkling  like  diamonds, 
from  the  grass.  If  the  man  goes  bee 
hunting  he  must  wear  shoes  and  thus  lose 
half  the  fun. 

What  excitement  there  was,  once  we 
got  a  line  on  the  tree.  Over  fences  and 
stone  walls  we  raced,  through  swamps  and 
brooks.  No  hill  was  too  steep,  and  no 
thicket  too  dense  to  be  penetrated,  as  long 
as  we  kept  the  fugitive  bee  in  sight,  or  at 
least  kept  the  line  upon  the  tree. 

To  most  of  the  readers  of  this  book 
the  privilege  and  education  of  bee  hunt- 
ing will  be  denied,  but  many  of  you  can 
avail  yourselves  of  a  very  good  substitute, 
and  that  is  the  study  of  the  bee  hive,  even 
though  it  be  the  back  yard  of  your  city 
home.  I  know  many  a  man  who  keeps  bees 
with  both  profit  and  pleasure  within  the 
city  limits  of  some  large  metropolis.  So 


The  Busy  Bee  145 

if  you  can  not  go  bee  hunting,  study  the 
hive,  and  you  can  learn  most  of  the 
secrets  that  the  country  boy  learns  follow- 
ing the  bee  line  to  the  honey  laden  tree. 

One  has  merely  to  take  his  stand  near 
the  hive  on  some  warm  summer  day,  when 
the  honey  flow  is  at  its  height,  at  about 
noon  to  realize  fully  how  true  is  the  old 
proverbial  phrase,  "as  busy  as  a  bee." 

"Hum,  hum,  zip,  zip,  hum."  They 
come  like  bullets  in  a  lively  skirmish,  a 
steady  stream,  all  laden  with  the  sweet  of 
every  honey  flower  that  blooms  within  a 
radius  of  three  miles.  It  matters  not 
whether  the  hive  is  composed  of  black 
native,  hybrids,  golden  banded  Carniolas, 
or  pure  Italians,  the  story  is  just  the  same, 
"hum,  hum,  zip,  zip,  hum."  All  bringing 
home  some  of  that  delicious  sweet  which 
the  wonderful  chemistry  of  sun  and  rain, 
dew  and  mould  have  distilled. 

But  no  idler  gains  entrance  to  the  hive, 
for  if  the  honey  stomach  which  is  just  in 


146     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

front  of  the  real  stomach,  is  not  well  filled, 
it  fares  hard  with  the  lazy  one. 

No  military  camp  was  ever  guarded 
more  rigidly  against  the  intrusion  of  the 
enemy,  than  is  the  hive  against  the  lag- 
gard, and  against  thieves  from  other 
hives. 

From  a  dozen  to  a  score  of  good  sol- 
diers stand  guard  all  day,  with  spears  in 
readiness.  Each  bee  who  enters  has  to 
possess  the  password  of  a  well  filled  honey 
sack,  or  the  odor  of  her  own  particular 
hive,  or  she  will  never  gain  entrance. 

If  fifty  hives  were  set  up  in  a  row,  and 
each  hive  contained  from  twenty-five  to 
fifty  thousand  bees,  that  rule  of  every  bee 
to  her  own  hive  would  be  as  rigidly  en- 
forced as  though  there  were  only  two  hives 
instead  of  fifty.  Does  each  hive  have  a 
password  so  that  its  inhabitants  are  known 
from  those  of  several  hundred  other  hives, 
or  does  each  bee  possess  physiological  char- 
acteristics, that  differentiate  her  from  all 


The  Busy  Bee  147 

the  others?  These,  and  other  explana- 
tions have  been  proposed  by  naturalists, 
from  time  to  time,  but  all  such  explana- 
tions have  been  rejected  as  visionary  and 
impractical. 

Naturalists  are  now  agreed  that  the  sen- 
tinels at  the  entrance  to  the  hive  recognize 
their  own  by  the  sense  of  smell  alone. 
Even  so,  how  keen  must  be  that  sense, 
when  a  hundred  hives  are  to  be  discrimi- 
nated between.  Truly  these  little  folks 
who  gather  sweets  for  us,  put  our  simple 
notions  of  biology  to  a  severe  test,  when 
we  undertake  to  explain  some  of  the 
simplest  things  about  the  hive. 

"Hum,  hum,  zip,  zip,  hum,  hum." 
From  how  far  afield  does  this  colony  come, 
and  which  are  its  most  favored  flowers? 

All  through  the  winter  the  swarm  was 
dormant,  huddling  together  in  a  conical 
shaped  mass.  By  constantly  changing 
their  position,  so  that  the  bees  on  the  in- 
side of  the  mass  came  to  the  outside,  while 


148     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

those  outside  got  inside  they  kept  warm. 
On  warm  days  when  the  thermometer 
touched  forty,  there  was  uneasiness  in  the 
bunch,  and  occasionally  a  bee  more  active 
than  her  fellows  crawled  out  to  see  how 
the  winter  was  progressing.  The  sugar 
maker  occasionally  fishes  a  bee  out  of  a 
pail  of  sap,  or  he  will  see  one  on  the  trunk 
of  a  maple  tree,  sucking  sweet  from  a 
crevice  from  which  oozes  sap,  that  is 
frozen  at  night  and  turned  into  honey- 
like  syrup. 

The  honey-bee  always  finds  the  first 
pussy-willow  from  which  she  takes  pollen 
and  the  first  spring  wild  flowers.  Her 
keen  sense  of  smell  probably  takes  her  far 
afield  in  the  early  spring  before  flowering 
has  really  begun.  The  lilac,  and  all  the 
cultivated  flowers  she  spies  out,  but  it  is 
not  until  the  new  grass  is  a  few  inches  high, 
and  the  heads  of  the  white  clover  appear 
that  the  honey  flow  can  be  said  to  have 
begun. 


The  Busy  Bee  149 

From  then  on,  the  honey-bee  is  a  free- 
booter. All  the  floral  world  is  hers,  and 
she  claims  her  own  wherever  she  finds  it. 
Disturb  this  robber  and  sacker  of  your 
orchards  and  fields  if  you  dare.  She  will 
defend  her  right  to  all  trees,  shrubs  and 
plants  that  bloom  and  you  will  not  long 
dispute  titles  with  her. 

If  the  honey-bee  could  only  gather 
honey  from  the  red  clover!  This  is  the 
bee-keeper's  zenith  of  hope,  but  the  long 
heads  of  the  red  clover,  which  contain 
much  more  of  the  delicious  sweet  than  do 
the  shorter  heads  of  the  white,  are  not  for 
the  honey-bee.  Nature  has  made  her  with 
too  short  a  tongue  to  reach  this  treasure, 
so  the  bumble-bee  and  the  butterfly  feed 
on  it,  while  then*  more  useful  cousin  goes 
unfed. 

On  about  every  head  of  every  stalk  in 
the  buckwheat  field  you  can  see  one  of 
these  golden-banded  robbers.  Away  in 
the  deep  woods  in  the  creamy  flowers  of 


150    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

the  basswood,  they  are  humming  and 
tonguing  the  stamens  for  the  hidden 
sweet.  All  through  the  summer  days, 
and  well  into  the  autumn,  the  golden-rod 
will  pay  toll  to  the  hive.  No  roadside 
flower,  that  contains  sweet  is  too  mean  or 
insignificant  to  escape  the  notice  of  this 
industrious  honey-getter.  While  men  idle 
she  works,  taught  by  some  marvelous  in- 
tuition that  soon  the  flowers  will  fade,  and 
snow  cover  the  ground  and  that  if  the 
honey-bees  would  not  perish  like  the  bum- 
ble-bee, they  must  be  storing  up  food  for 
winter. 

A  great  many  erroneous  ideas  are  held 
by  the  general  public  as  to  the  position  of 
the  queen-bee  in  the  colony.  In  the  minds 
of  many  she  is  the  master  mind,  and  a 
queen  of  absolute  power.  But  this  is  not 
so,  while  she  is  a  royal  queen,  and  her  king- 
dom is  a  veritable  empire  in  which,  in  a 
certain  sense,  she  is  supreme,  yet  it  is  a 
limited  monarchy,  and  her  powers  are 


The  Busy  Bee  151 

more  like  those  of  a  limited  monarch,  than 
those  of  a  despot. 

The  colony  would  even  go  so  far  as  to 
kill  their  queen  if  they  didn't  like  her,  or 
thought  she  was  not  serving  the  best  in- 
terests of  the  hive,  quite  as  the  human  fam- 
ily have  disposed  of  royalty  that  had  be- 
come obnoxious. 

Although  the  hive  can  do  almost  noth- 
ing without  the  presence  and  assistance 
of  the  queen,  yet  she  is  not  its  whole  power. 
This  is  located  in  the  body  politic,  just  as 
it  is  in  a  limited  monarchy. 

In  many  ways  the  hive  can  be  controlled 
through  its  queen.  For  instance,  if  the 
hive  swarms,  and  a  part  of  its  members 
leave  and  take  up  quarters  on  the  limb  of 
an  adjacent  tree,  they  ascertain  if  the 
queen  has  come  with  them,  and  if  she  is 
not  discovered  in  the  cluster,  they  at  once 
return  to  the  hive.  So  when  the  bee- 
keeper does  not  wish  to  have  the  hive 
swarm,  he  keeps  what  is  called  a  drone- 


152     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

trap  over  the  front  door  of  the  hive.  This 
enables  the  workers  to  go  and  come  as 
they  wish  but  the  queen  and  drones  cannot 
leave  the  hive  until  the  trap  is  re- 
moved. 

Swarming  is  a  wise  provision  of  nature 
by  means  of  which  the  hive  is  kept  from 
becoming  congested,  and  it  is  an  unwritten 
law  in  beedom  that  the  queen  goes  with 
the  swarming  bees.  This  leaves  the  old 
hive  without  a  queen  and  consequently 
without  means  of  keeping  its  numbers 
good,  for  you  must  remember  that  the 
life  of  a  bee,  is  only  about  sixty  days,  so 
if  a  hive  is  left  for  any  length  of  time 
without  a  queen  to  lay  eggs  and  hatch 
out  new  members,  the  entire  colony  dies, 
and  the  bee-keeper  loses  a  hive.  But  this 
rarely  happens,  for  these  little  people  are 
very  ingenious.  Much  more  so  than 
man,  in  fact,  and  can  supply  any  exist- 
ing want  in  their  small  but  most  active 
house. 


The  Busy  Bee  153 

When  the  old  hive  is  left  without  a 
queen  and  none  is  ready  to  hatch,  the 
colony  may  set  to  work  and  make  a  queen 
to  order,  as  you  might  say. 

In  our  human  government  we  have 
often  created  new  royal  families,  but  we 
have  never  actually  created  new  queens, 
as  the  bees  have  done. 

Several  queen  cells  containing  eggs, 
that  have  previously  been  laid  by  the  ab- 
sconding queen,  are  now  sealed  up  and 
allowed  to  hatch,  and  the  first  new  queen 
hatched,  crawls  forth  to  receive  the 
homage  of  her  subjects  which  is  hers  in 
full  measure  once  she  has  mated.  But 
she  at  once  takes  a  precaution  against 
usurpers  that  our  human  royalty  have 
often  employed,  for  she  kills  all  the  un- 
hatched  or  partially  developed  queens  and 
thus  insures  her  sovereignty. 

This  act  done,  her  admiring  subjects 
crowd  around  her  and  do  homage,  feed- 
ing her  prepared  food  from  their  small 


154    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

tongues,  and  looking  for  all  the  world,  as 
they  cluster  about  her,  like  a  large  daisy, 
with  its  golden  queenly  center. 

It  is  a  time  of  perturbation  when  the 
new  queen  flies  forth  to  mate.  She  is  at 
once  missed  and  clouds  of  bees  pour  forth 
from  the  hive  in  search  of  her.  This  con- 
fusion often  alarms  the  novice  into  think- 
ing that  the  hive  is  about  to  swarm. 

But  the  mating  queen  cares  not  for  the 
alarm  of  her  subjects,  she  has  more  im- 
portant business  on  hand  this  morning. 

Up,  up  she  soars  in  a  graceful  spiral, 
searching  the  upper  air  for  her  mate.  As 
every  hive  contains  several  hundred  drones 
who  were  hatched  for  this  express  purpose 
and  for  this  alone,  the  queen  is  usually 
successful  the  first  morning  of  her 
quest. 

In  the  one-hundredth  part  of  a  second, 
while  flying  like  bullets,  the  virgin  queen 
and  her  mate  make  possible  the  laying  of 
from  five  hundred  to  seven  hundred  thou- 


The  Busy  Bee  155 

sand  fertile  eggs  which  may  produce  in 
time,  two  or  three  dozen  new  hives  of 
honey  gatherers. 

But  the  poor  drone  forfeits  his  life  in 
the  act.  His  generative  organs  are  torn 
from  his  body  and  carried  back  by  the 
queen  to  the  hive,  while  the  drone  flutters 
to  earth  and  dies  having  served  his  end 
in  the  economy  of  nature. 

After  the  mating  season  is  past  the 
drones  are  either  driven  from  the  hive,  or 
killed,  so  that  it  shall  contain  only  the 
queen  and  her  workers. 

Each  hive  of  bees  that  is  carrying  its 
full  complement  of  individuals  contains 
the  following: 

First  and  foremost  there  is  the  queen, 
the  gentle  ruler  of  this  wonderful  king- 
dom, capable  of  laying  from  two  to  three 
thousand  eggs  a  day  in  the  laying  season, 
and  upon  whose  fertility  the  life  of  the 
hive  depends.  But  she  is  not  the  only 
egg  layer  in  the  hive,  for  the  workers  are 


156    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

females  as  well,  some  of  them  capable  of 
laying  eggs,  but  the  great  difference  be- 
tween the  eggs  of  these  two  egg-layers, 
is  that  the  queen's  eggs  may  hatch  queens, 
workers  or  drones,  while  the  eggs  of  the 
worker  will  only  hatch  drones. 

The  drones  are  of  course  the  males, 
whose  only  excuse  for  living  is  to  fertilize 
the  queen. 

They  never  gather  honey,  and  feed 
greedily  at  the  store  inside  the  hive.  But 
their  day  is  only  a  short  one,  although 
they  live  upon  the  sweets  of  the  land, 
without  having  to  toil  for  it  while  they 
exist. 

Briefly  considered  the  inner  life  of  the 
hive  is  as  follows: 

All  through  the  cold  months,  from  late 
in  November  up  to  nearly  the  first  of 
May  the  hive  is  dormant.  During  this 
time  its  members,  which  are  now  all 
workers,  hang  in  a  large  conical  cluster 
in  the  hive.  But  there  is  a  constant  move- 


The  Busy  Bee  157 

ment  of  the  individuals  in  the  cluster, 
which  keeps  it  warm. 

From  time  to  time  they  feed  upon  the 
honey  that  has  been  stored  up  for  that 
purpose,  but  they  are  not  as  hungry  as 
they  would  be  if  more  active.  If  the  win- 
ter supply  of  honey  runs  low,  the  bee- 
keeper feeds  them  upon  sugar  melted  to  a 
thin  syrup. 

On  an  exceptionally  warm  day  in  April 
the  swarm  begins  to  warm  up,  and  as  soon 
as  any  of  the  earliest  wild  flowers  blos- 
som the  bees  are  on  hand  to  take  toll. 

So  it  will  be  seen  they  are  no  laggards 
and  they  tread  very  close  upon  the  heels  of 
the  tardy  spring. 

I  do  not  think  any  one  knows  just 
the  chemistry  of  wax  making.  It,  of 
course,  comes  from  plants  and  flowers,  but 
just  what  ones,  and  just  how  it  is  pre- 
pared only  the  reticent  bee  knows. 

As  soon  as  the  honey  flow  begins  in  the 
spring  the  colony  set  to  work  to  draw  out 


158     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

the  cells  in  which  to  store  the  golden  nec- 
tar. Soon  in  each  of  the  little  sections 
which  are  made  to  hold  a  pound  of  honey, 
a  wax  curtain  is  started  beginning  at  the 
top  and  working  down.  On  each  side  of 
this  curtain  are  plainly  stamped  the  hex- 
agonal cells  which,  when  they  have  been 
drawn  out  laterally,  will  be  the  fully  de- 
veloped cells.  It  is  a  marvel  of  workman- 
ship this  golden  cellular  mass,  each  cell 
symmetrical  and  nicely  sealed.  But  each 
honey  gatherer  has  a  tri-square  on  the 
end  of  his  nose,  his  proboscis  being  tri- 
angular, and  six  of  these  triangles  placed 
side  by  side,  and  point  to  point  give  him 
the  perfect  hexagon.  This  cell  when 
completed  is  about  three-sixteenths  of  an 
inch  in  diameter  and  about  three-quarters 
of  an  inch  deep. 

It  is  a  wonderful  sight  to  peep  into 
the  observation  hive  when  the  honey  flow 
is  at  its  height,  and  see  these  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  industrious  lit- 


The  Busy  Bee  159 

tie  folks  coming  and  going,  swarming  in 
and  out  from  the  partly  filled  cells,  each 
upon  his  mission  of  good  to  man. 

Upon  particularly  hot  days  if  you  put 
your  hand  close  to  the  hive  you  can  some- 
times feel  a  cold  current  of  air  not  strong 
but  very  perceptible. 

Inside  a  hundred  cold  air  fans  are  go- 
ing, keeping  the  temperature  of  the  hive 
at  a  normal  pitch  and  also  thickening  the 
honey.  This  is  done  by  the  wings  which 
will  fan  away  ceaselessly  for  hours. 

The  hive  is  always  kept  scrupulously 
clean,  for  the  honey-makers  appreciate 
the  fact  that  any  foreign  substance  would 
taint  the  honey. 

Each  spring  the  hive  is  carefully  cleaned 
and  all  small  cracks  are  sealed  up  with 
wax,  so  that  it  is  as  nearly  impervious  to 
moisture  and  dust  as  possible. 

Sometimes  when  the  honey  flow  is  heavy 
the  bee-keeper  places  a  hive  upon  the 
scales,  and  it  occasionally  registers  five 


160     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

or  six  pounds  in  a  single  day,  but  this  is 
much  above  the  average. 

There  are  many  kinds  of  honey,  vary- 
ing according  to  the  flora  of  the  vicinity 
in  which  the  bees  are  kept.  Golden-rod, 
bass  wood,  white  clover  and  buckwheat 
being  among  the  best  known.  Alfalfa  is 
also  a  great  honey  plant,  and  the  flow 
from  this  source  is  great  and  bee  keeping 
in  the  alfalfa  country  is  most  lucrative. 

There  is  no  subject  in  the  entire  range 
of  natural  history  more  fascinating  than 
that  of  bee  study  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  the  ants,  who  are  about  as  much 
of  a  mystery  to  man  as  are  the  bees. 

It  is  a  biting  satire  upon  the  wisdom 
and  ingenuity  of  men,  that  long  before 
God  placed  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  garden 
of  Eden  the  bees  and  the  ants  had  per- 
fected man's  two  principal  forms  of  gov- 
ernment, upon  which  he  is  still  laboring, 
namely,  the  kingdom  and  the  republic. 

One  cannot  study  either  the  ant-hill  or 


The  Busy  Bee  161 

the  bee-hive  for  long  and  keep  his  conceit 
and  self-confidence,  as  the  particular  cap- 
stone of  creation,  and  the  impersonation 
of  all  wisdom. 

Who  taught  the  bees  the  art  of  govern- 
ment, which  they  possess  to  such  a  marked 
degree?  Who  gave  them  their  moral 
code,  and  their  nice  distinction  between 
the  fit  and  the  unfit?  Who  told  them 
that  the  heart  of  the  rose  and  the  lily  were 
sweet,  and  that  the  sweet  could  be  gath- 
ered upon  that  subtle  tongue?  Who 
taught  them  to  predigest  this  food  and  to 
so  nicely  prepare  it  for  man?  How  and 
where  did  they  learn  that  half  of  the  year 
was  biting  cold  and  that  the  flowers  were 
all  asleep  for  many  months?  Who  told 
them  that  they  must  provide  for  this  lapse 
in  the  bounty  of  nature? 

What  governs  the  instinct  of  swarm- 
ing? Which  are  the  master  minds  who 
lead  the  way  to  the  new  bee  tree?  Where 
in  that  small  brain  is  located  the  sense  of 


162     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

direction,  that  will  lead  the  little  wanderers 
as  straight  home,  as  a  shaft  of  light  would 
travel?  Why  do  not  the  bees  who  stay  in 
the  hive  swarm,  and  those  who  swarm  stay 
at  home? 

These  and  a  thousand  others  are  the 
queries  that  daily  and  hourly  confront  the 
keeper  of  bees,  and  he  has  never  yet  satis- 
factorily answered  any  of  them. 


DOWNSTREAM  IN  A  CANOE 


CHAPTEE  YII 
Downstream  in  a  Canoe 

through  my  boyhood  I  had 
dreamed  of  the  wilderness  beyond  the  pale 
of  civilization.  The  home  of  the  bear  and 
the  moose,  the  deer  and  the  beaver,  and 
wondered  vainly  if  I  would  ever  be  fortu- 
nate enough  to  visit  this  wonderland,  the 
"Big  Woods." 

The  little  brook  in  the  meadow  my  boy- 
ish fancy  had  transformed  into  a  wonder- 
ful stream  in  the  Maine  woods,  and  going 
for  the  cows  had  been  translated  into 
moose  calling  by  the  same  magic. 

But  now  my  dreams  had  all  come  true. 
I  no  longer  had  to  play  that  the  meadow 
brook  was  a  wilderness  stream,  for  such  a 
river  was  at  the  very  moment  slipping 
beneath  the  keel  of  my  canoe,  and  as  for 

165 


i66     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

moose  calling,  why  our  guide  the  evening 
before  had  fashioned  a  birch  bark  horn 
that  he  said  would  call  all  the  bull  moose 
in  the  State  of  Maine  right  into  our  very 
camp. 

It  was  twilight  of  a  wonderful  autumnal 
day,  late  in  October.  The  funeral  piles 
of  leaf  and  frond  blazed  high  upon  the 
hilltops,  and  glowed  with  rich  deep  red, 
low  down  in  the  quiet  valley.  Along  all 
the  smaller  water  courses  the  sumac  and 
soft  maple  glowed  like  living  coals, 
while  the  bright  berries  of  the  mountain 
ash  occasionally  showed  among  the  duller 
reds,  as  though  the  flames  had  found  a 
substance  peculiarly  to  their  liking. 

A  little  later  all  this  brilliant  color 
would  fade.  The  leaves  would  first  turn 
to  yellows  and  browns,  then  to  grays,  and 
finally  they  would  return  to  dust,  making 
way  for  the  new  buds  that  had  really  then 
started  weeks  before. 

All  day  long  we  had  been  drifting  down 


Downstream  in  a  Canoe      167 

the  swift  current  of  a  wonderful  stream  in 
northern  Maine.  Perhaps  this  stream 
was  no  more  wonderful  than  a  thousand 
others  throughout  the  world,  but  it  seemed 
wonderful  to  me  at  the  time,  for  I  was 
going  with  it  on  its  impetuous  errand,  and 
I  fell  into  all  its  moods.  When  it  ran 
swift  and  turbulent,  my  own  blood  pulsed 
more  freely.  When  it  was  deep  and 
placid,  my  own  mood  became  contempla- 
tive. How  often  I  thought,  during  that 
cruise,  of  the  passage  of  the  "living 
waters."  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  waters 
that  foamed  and  gleamed,  bubbled  and 
gurgled,  roared  and  leapt,  were  living. 

That  noon  we  had  stopped  at  the  mouth 
of  a  limpid  stream,  clear  as  crystal,  and  as 
cold  as  icewater.  I  knew  the  moment  I 
saw  this  pure  little  brook  that  it  contained 
trout.  The  trout  is  in  some  ways  a  very 
particular  fish,  and  he  is  especially  fussy 
about  his  abode. 

A  trout  cannot  tolerate  muddy,  slug- 


l68    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

gish  water.  The  brook  that  he  inhabits 
must  leap  and  sparkle.  The  trout  is  a 
leaping,  sparkling  fish,  and  his  stream 
must  match  his  own  character.  There 
must  be  no  moss  on  the  stones  in  his  brook, 
and  no  frog  spittle. 

So  the  little  brook  being  limpid  and 
pure  had  provided  our  dinner  in  the  form 
of  a  dozen  handsome  trout.  After  the 
fish  were  dressed,  a  thin  strip  of  pork  had 
been  put  inside  each,  and  then  they  had 
been  put  in  the  ashes.  How  the  smooth, 
rich  particles  of  these  trout  melted  in  the 
mouth  and  made  a  boy  of  me  again! 
Again  I  dreamed,  dangling  my  feet  from 
the  old  bridge.  Again  I  heard  the  living 
water  gushing  from  beneath  the  old  water 
wheel  that  turned  the  ancient  mill,  where 
I  took  the  grist  when  a  boy.  Dear  de- 
licious days  of  boyhood!  How  some  fa- 
miliar sound  or  scent,  or  taste  will  set  the 
care-haunted  heart  to  beating  again  with 
the  old  joy  and  the  old  longing 


Downstream  in  a  Canoe     169 

It  was  not  often  that  the  boyhood  rec- 
ollections came  floating  back  as  they  did 
that  day,  but  the  taste  of  trout  had  done 
it. 

There  were  only  two  occupants  of  the 
light  canoe  that  felt  the  slightest  stroke 
of  the  paddle  so  quickly.  That  day,  two 
was  company,  and  I  am  afraid  that  three 
would  have  been  a  crowd.  The  guide 
merely  watched  the  current  and  the  nose 
of  the  canoe,  occasionally  dipping  the  pad- 
dle into  the  water  to  steady  her,  or  to 
change  her  course.  In  long  stretches  of 
quiet,  deep  water,  he  was  obliged  to  pad- 
dle, but  for  most  of  the  way,  Nature  was 
working  for  us,  and  that  mystic  some- 
thing th^t  was  calling  to  the  waters  was 
speeding  our  canoe  swiftly  downstream. 

There  were  plenty  of  sights  and  sounds 
in  this  Maine  wilderness  to  keep  one 
watching  and  guessing.  Little  birds 
peeped  curiously  at  us  from  the  thickets, 
and  many  an  empty  nest,  that  had  been 


I  JO     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

cunningly  hidden  months  before,  now 
showed  plainly  as  the  green  mantle  that 
had  shielded  it  became  more  transparent. 
The  great  fish-hawk  occasionally  soared 
majestically  by,  or  stooped  to  the  stream 
and  picked  up  a  chub,  almost  under  our 
noses.  The  kingfisher  rattled  and  chat- 
tered and  clattered,  whenever  we  came 
upon  him,  and  made  it  quite  plain  to  us 
that  we  had  invaded  his  domain.  The 
bittern  uttered  his  strange  cry,  and  then 
flopped  slowly  away.  Crows  screamed  at 
us  from  the  treetops,  and  the  jay  squalled 
derisively,  and  then  flew  away  to  tell  all 
the  dwellers  in  the  forest  that  a  strange 
fish  was  swimming  the  stream,  and  that 
the  fearful  creature,  man,  had  something 
to  do  with  it,  so  the  whole  affair  was  to  be 
shunned. 

That  noisy,  gleeful  imp,  the  red  squir- 
rel, also  scolded  and  barked,  whenever  we 
went  ashore,  and  he  did  not  always  let  us 
pass  unchallenged,  when  we  kept  to  the 


Downstream  in,  a  Canoe     171 

water.  Trout  leaped  in  the  deep  pools  at 
dusk  and  dawn,  when  we  always  sought 
to  take  some  for  breakfast  and  supper. 
But  there  were  other  fishermen  besides 
ourselves.  Besides  the  kingfisher  and  the 
fish-hawk,  the  otter  and  the  mink  also  took 
fish,  while  Bruin,  clumsy  as  he  seems, 
makes  many  a  good  meal  upon  trout. 

We  held  the  canoe  anchored  to  the  shore, 
by  some  bushes,  for  an  hour  one  twilight, 
while  we  watched  Bruin  fishing.  He  took 
his  fish  just  as  a  raccoon  would,  crouching 
above  the  pool,  with  his  paw  in  readiness, 
until  some  luckless  trout  swam  to  the 
surface  for  a  fly  or  miller.  The  stroke 
was  so  quick  that  we  did  not  see  it,  but  we 
did  see  the  trout  that  went  spinning  into 
the  bushes,  and  we  also  saw  the  smile  on 
the  bear's  face,  as  he  lumbered  off  with 
his  prize.  The  guide  told  me  that  many 
of  the  big  cats  fish  in  the  same  manner. 


JACKING  AND  MOOSE- 
CALLING 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Jacking  and  Moose-calling 

1  HERE  is  a  strange  fascination  to  most 
wild  animals  in  the  gleam  of  firelight,  es- 
pecially at  night.  Nearly  all  of  them  fear 
the  bright  mysterious  something,  that 
leaps  and  dances,  flickers  and  fades  so 
magically. 

Most  wild  creatures  are  of  two  minds, 
half  fearful  and  half  fascinated,  and  love 
to  linger  on  the  outskirts  of  the  light, 
where  they  can  see  and  not  be  seen. 

Probably  the  instinctive  fear  of  fire 
that  wild  animals  have  springs  from  their 
sad  experiences  with  forest  fires.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  they  fear  this  power  which 
they  cannot  understand,  this  demon  that 
will,  in  a  few  fearful  hours,  lay  waste  their 
deep  fastnesses,  turning  cool  sweet  shade 

175 


176     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

into  an  inferno,  and  the  sweet  air  into  a 
stifling,  choking,  strangling  nightmare, 
from  which  so  many  of  them  find  it  impos- 
sible to  escape.  No  sight  is  more  ma- 
jestic or  terrible  than  that  of  a  forest  fire, 
especially  when  the  winds  fan  the  flames, 
which  leap  from  treetop  to  treetop,  crown- 
ing the  forest  with  a  wreath  of  brass, 
while  its  denizens  flee  to  lakes  and  streams 
for  shelter,  some  going  slowly,  but  others 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

The  part  that  fire  has  played  in  the  re- 
lations of  man  and  beast  is  most  impor- 
tant. Many  an  unfortunate  traveller  has 
defended  himself  effectually  from  wolves, 
with  a  few  bright  flames,  when  powder 
and  ball  have  failed. 

One  evening  after  supper,  we  lighted 
our  jack,  and  pushed  off  in  a  canoe  to  try 
what  magic  there  was  in  fire. 

The  night  was  wonderfully  still,  just 
as  it  frequently  is  in  autumn,  when  the 
constellations  are  bright,  and  the  Hunter's 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling     177 

Moon  is  at  its  full.  There  were  plenty  of 
night  sounds,  such  as  the  unearthly  laugh- 
ing of  a  loon,  or  the  hooting  of  an  owl,  but 
when  the  wilderness  had  again  lapsed  into 
silence,  it  seemed  even  stiller  for  the  night 
voices  that  had  spoken. 

For  half  an  hour,  we  drifted  silently 
downstream  seeing  and  hearing  small 
creatures  that  were  attracted  by  our  jack. 
Presently  there  wras  a  slight  sound  in  the 
underbrush,  which  seemed  to  keep  just  so 
far  from  the  stream,  and  to  be  following 
parallel  with  our  course.  Once,  when  a 
dry  twig  snapped  with  a  sharp  report, 
the  guide  whispered,  "deer."  A  twig 
never  crunches  under  the  sharp,  cutting 
hoof  of  a  deer,  but  always  pops.  After 
the  sounds  in  the  bushes  had  followed  par- 
allel to  the  stream  for  a  few  rods,  they  be- 
came plainer,  as  though  the  forest  stranger 
was  overcoming  his  timidity,  or  getting 
more  curious  about  us.  Just  ahead  was  a 
sharp  turn  in  the  stream,  and  a  point  that 


178     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

ran  out  into  the  water.  Here  the  guide 
worked  the  boat  carefully  in  towards  the 
shore,  where  he  held  it  stationary,  by 
thrusting  a  paddle  into  the  sand.  There 
we  waited  and  listened,  my  nerves  tingling 
with  excitement.  Then  presently  the 
sounds  of  breaking  twigs,  and  the  swish 
of  parting  bushes  drew  nearer,  and  a  dark 
form  crossed  a  patch  of  moonlight  about 
fifty  feet  away.  A  second  later  it  came 
out  into  the  outer  edge  of  light  cast  by 
the  jack,  and  stood  erect  and  alert.  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  proud  figure,  with 
its  graceful  outline,  and  slim,  arching 
neck,  even  if  there  had  not  been  a  mag- 
nificent crown  of  horns,  probably  a  five 
pointer,  and  two  large  luminous  eyes,  that 
were  wide  with  fear  and  wonder.  A  mo- 
ment later  a  second  head  was  thrust  into 
the  aureole  of  light,  and  a  doe,  also  wide- 
eyed  and  wondering,  stood  beside  her 
lord,  and  gazed  fearfully,  yet  fascinated 
at  this  strange  will-o'-the-wisp,  that 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling     179 

danced  on  the  river.  It  was  as  pretty  a 
wilderness  picture  as  ever  delighted  the 
eye  of  woodsman,  but  it  was  all  too  brief, 
for  a  telltale  breath  of  wind  came  dancing 
over  the  stream  and  blew  our  hot  body 
scent  full  in  their  distended,  quivering 
nostrils.  There  was  a  loud  snort,  a 
whistle,  and  the  pair  went  crashing 
through  the  woods,  just  as  though  it  had 
been  daylight  instead  of  semi-darkness, 
and  the  path  had  been  smooth,  instead  of 
laid  with  a  score  of  pitfalls  and  every  step 
filled  with  neckbreaking  obstacles. 

We  had  had  our  fun  for  that  night,  so 
paddled  leisurely  back  to  camp,  well 
pleased  with  the  experience. 

Another  allurement  that  we  tried,  which 
was  equally  interesting,  was  moose-call- 
ing. For  this,  my  companion  first  made  a 
moose  call.  This  was  done  by  stripping 
a  yellow  birch  of  a  section  of  its  bark, 
about  three  feet  long,  which  was  rolled 
into  a  rude  megaphone. 


180     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

This  call  was  also  used  on  a  moonlight 
night,  when  the  witchery  of  the  Hunter's 
Moon  was  on  the  forest,  and  we  went  in 
the  canoe,  as  before.  This  is  a  favorite 
manner  of  stalking  game,  as  one  can  go  so 
much  stiller  than  on  foot.  It  must  not  be 
imagined  that  we  had  any  response  to  our 
entreaties  the  first  night  or  the  second. 
In  fact,  it  was  nearly  a  week  before  our 
patience  was  rewarded. 

We  were  lying  in  a  little  cove,  which 
was  an  arm  of  a  wonderful  forest  lake. 
The  canoe  was  held  stationary  by  a  paddle 
that  was  thrust  in  the  mud.  My  compan- 
ion rested  the  larger  end  of  the  moose  call 
on  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  took  a  deep 
breath,  puffed  out  his  cheek  like  the  un- 
fortunate man  who  plays  the  bass  tuba 
in  the  band,  and  a  deep  chested  bellow 
echoed  across  the  lake.  First,  it  was  low 
keyed  and  uncertain,  like  the  rumble  of 
distant  thunder,  but  as  the  sound  rose  in 


I 


T  was  as  pretty  a  wilderness  picture   as  ever 
delighted  the  eyes  of  a  woodsman 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling     181 

pitch  it  swelled  in  volume,  filling  the  for- 
est and  echoing  along  the  lake.  Finally, 
it  died  away  in  an  uncertain  wail,  like  the 
bellow  of  a  cow  who  is  calling  for  the  calf 
that  the  man  in  the  hlue  frock  has  just 
loaded  into  the  wagon  and  driven  away 
with. 

We  waited  and  listened,  but  only  the 
cries  of  night  birds  reached  our  ears. 
Again  the  guide  flung  this  deep  chested 
bellow,  that  I  do  not  see  how  human 
lungs  can  produce,  across  the  lake,  and  we 
waited  and  listened.  This  time  it  was  an- 
swered, faint  and  far,  but  still  it  was  an 
answering  call,  and  that  was  more  than  we 
had  heard  before. 

Again  the  guide  called,  this  time  put- 
ting more  of  defiance  than  of  entreaty 
into  the  sound.  This,  too,  was  answered, 
and  the  answering  call  was  defiant  as  well. 
Then  there  was  silence  for  two  or  three 
minutes,  while  we  waited  for  our  rival  to 


182     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

make  the  next  move.  Soon  we  were  re- 
warded for  our  patience  by  a  third  call, 
this  time  much  plainer. 

"He's  coming  round  the  lake,"  whis- 
pered the  guide,  and  he  sent  back  a  de- 
fiant bellow.  Then  there  was  silence 
again  while  the  night  winds  sighed  in  the 
treetops,  and  the  ripples  on  the  water 
softly  licked  the  sides  of  the  canoe,  and 
murmured  on  the  pebbly  beach. 

In  the  course  of  five  minutes,  we  could 
hear  him  coming,  thrashing  the  bushes 
with  his  antlers,  and  occasionally  stop- 
ping as  though  uncertain. 

Each  time  his  thundering  challenge 
rolled  across  the  lake,  we  responded  with 
an  equally  defiant  bellow.  At  last  we 
could  hear  him  thrashing  the  bushes  with 
his  antlers,  and  the  guide  reached  over 
with  a  paddle  and  thrashed  with  the  pad- 
dle upon  some  bushes  that  grew  along  the 
shore.  Then  he  blew  a  short,  defiant  bel- 
low, that  plainly  said,  "Come  on,  my  fine 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling     183 

fellow,  and  I  will  give  you  a  terrible 
thrashing." 

This  was  more  than  the  uncertain  bull 
could  stand.  He  had  been  challenged, 
his  courage  had  been  questioned,  his  repu- 
tation was  at  stake,  so  with  a  short  bellow 
of  rage,  and  a  snort  of  defiance,  he  tore 
through  the  underbrush,  bending  down 
small  saplings  as  he  came. 

We  could  now  plainly  hear  his  hoofs 
clack,  as  he  came,  like  huge  castanets. 
Then  he  burst  out  into  the  open,  his  head 
erect,  his  nostrils  distended,  his  eyes  blaz- 
ing, his  whole  attitude  belligerent. 

He  was  a  magnificent  picture  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  full  moonlight,  clearly 
outlined  against  the  forest.  The  broad 
spread  of  his  antlers,  his  massive  head,  his 
deep  chest,  and  his  great  height,  all  pro- 
claimed him  a  king.  The  rightful  king  of 
the  forest  whose  denizens  should  honor  and 
whom  man  should  admire  as  one  of  God's 
splendid  creatures. 


184     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

Whether  he  would  have  come  still 
nearer  and  finally  either  scented  or  ac- 
tually seen  us,  I  do  not  know.  These 
striking  scenes  in  the  woods  are  usually 
fleeting,  seen  for  a  few  seconds  and  then 
they  vanish  and  leave  one  wondering 
whether  his  senses  have  not  played  him 
false  after  all.  He  had  not  stood  in  full 
view  five  seconds  when  the  telltale,  warn- 
ing cry  of  a  loon  echoed  across  the  lake 
and  with  a  snort  of  alarm  he  thundered 
into  the  depths  from  which  he  came  and 
we  saw  him  no  more,  although,  we  could 
hear  his  noisy  progress  through  the  deep 
woods  for  several  minutes.  When  the 
last  sound  of  breaking  underbrush  had 
ceased  we  paddled  back  to  camp,  well 
pleased  with  the  night's  moose  calling. 


HE  was  a  magnificent  picture  as  he  stood  there 
in  the  full  moonlight 


IN  BEAVER-LAND 


CHAPTER  IX 
In  Beaver-Land 

ONE  afternoon  about  two  weeks  later, 
when  the  splendor  of  the  autumnal  forest 
had  begun  to  pale,  and  grays  and  browns 
had  partially  taken  the  place  of  saffron 
and  gold  and  flaming  red,  we  floated 
down  into  the  pleasant  valley  that  I  call 
beaver-land. 

For  three  or  four  miles  above  the  first 
of  the  chain  of  five  lakes,  there  were 
plenty  of  signs  that  beaver  dwelt  not  far 
distant.  The  first  intimation  that  we  had 
of  being  near  the  colony,  was  the  stumps 
of  hundreds  of  poplars  and  maples. 
These  stumps  were  conical  in  shape  and 
where  the  tree  had  not  yet  quite  suc- 
cumbed to  these  active  rodents,  it  was 
shaped  like  an  hourglass.  The  largest 

187 


i88     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

of  these  trees  were  two  or  two  and  a  half 
feet  in  diameter,  but  the  guide  told  me 
that  he  had  occasionally  seen  trees  three  or 
four  feet  in  diameter  that  had  fallen  be- 
neath the  teeth  of  these  ambitious  woods- 
men. 

Further  on  down  the  valley  we  occa- 
sionally saw  a  log  that  had  lodged  against 
some  root  or  projection  in  the  bank. 
This  log  was  on  its  way  to  the  dam  per- 
haps, where  it  would  be  worked  into  that 
structure,  or  may  be  it  was  intended  for 
food  and  would  be  stored  under  the  ice, 
for  use  during  the  long  winter. 

As  we  drifted  further  and  further  into 
beaver-land,  the  wonder  of  it  all  grew 
upon  me.  It  did  not  seem  so  wonderful 
that  a  beaver  should  fell  one  tree,  or  half 
a  dozen,  but  when  I  saw  acres  of  timber 
nearly  stripped  by  these  wonderful  ani- 
mals my  respect  for  all  four-footed  crea- 
tures grew,  although  it  had  been  consider- 
able before. 


In  Beaver-Land  189 

The  five  lakes  that  comprised  beaver- 
land  were  like  a  series  of  locks  in  a  canal, 
each  lake  setting  back  to  the  dam  of  the 
one  above.  My  companion  told  me  that 
beaver  dams  were  usually  in  pairs  one 
above  the  other.  He  said  it  was  hard  to 
tell  why  the  beaver  built  in  this  way,  but 
his  own  theory  was  that  the  wise  builder 
kept  the  upper  lake  as  a  reservoir,  for  he 
always  built  his  house  in  the  lower  lake, 
with  this  second  lake  at  his  command,  if 
the  first  dam  sprung  a-leak  and  the  water 
fell  so  as  to  expose  the  beaver  houses  to 
attack,  the  beaver  could  repair  the  leak 
in  the  dam,  and  immediately  fill  the  lower 
lake  from  the  upper,  without  waiting  for 
it  to  fill  in  the  natural  way.  If  this  is 
the  real  secret  for  these  double  lakes,  it 
looks  very  much  as  though  the  beavers 
were  capable  of  planning  on  their  own  ac- 
count. When  we  saw  cords  and  cords  of 
poplar  and  maple  wood,  cut  into  pieces 
about  three  feet  in  length  piled  up  in 


190    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

front  of  each  dam,  we  were  again  forced 
to  believe  that  the  beaver  is  a  planner. 

Some  of  the  beaver  houses  which  were 
old  were  so  overgrown  with  water  grasses 
that  they  looked  like  small  hillocks  in  the 
lake,  while  others  were  smooth  and  sym- 
metrical, as  though  they  were  fresh  from 
the  mason's  trowel.  Another  thing  that 
looked  much  as  though  the  beaver  could 
plan  for  himself,  were  certain  breakwaters 
running  out  into  the  stream  above  the 
upper  lake.  They  were  alternated,  and 
the  guide  said  they  were  to  break  the  force 
of  the  ice  during  the  high  water  in  spring- 
time and  to  keep  it  from  rushing  down 
upon  the  dams  and  demolishing  them. 
Another  clever  piece  of  work  in  beaver- 
land  is  a  channel  that  is  sometimes  cut 
around  the  end  of  a  dam,  so  that  the  water 
may  flow  off  in  a  waste-water,  and  not 
wash  the  dam  by  its  continual  flow. 

The  beavers  caused  us  four  hard  port- 


In  Beaver-Land  191 

ages  around  their  dams  that  day,  but  by 
twilight  we  camped  upon  the  lower  of  the 
five  lakes  close  to  the  dam.  The  same 
evening  after  we  had  eaten  our  supper  of 
broiled  fish,  biscuit  and  coffee,  we  drew 
our  canoe  up  on  the  bank  of  the  lake  and 
prepared  to  watch  the  operation  of  dam 
building,  which,  from  the  newly  cut  logs 
and  fresh  mud  that  we  saw  upon  the  dam, 
we  knew  was  going  on. 

We  tried  the  old  ruse  of  displacing 
some  logs  and  sods,  in  hopes  that  the  little 
builders  would  discover  the  leak  and  come 
forth  to  repair  the  damage.  I  felt  quite 
mean  when  I  saw  the  rent  that  we  had 
made  in  the  structure,  and  was  half  in- 
clined to  repair  the  damage  myself  and 
trust  to  luck  to  see  the  beavers  at  work 
but  I  was  most  desirous  of  seeing  the  little 
builders  on  the  spot  and  so  suffered  the 
precious  water  to  stream  through  the  break. 

We  took  a  commanding  position  in  a 


192     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

tall  pine  near  the  dam  from  which  we 
could  see  far  up  the  lake  and  across  the  low 
lying  valley  in  every  direction.  It  was 
rather  tedious  waiting,  holding  on  to  an 
uncertain  perch  forty  or  fifty  feet  up  in 
the  pine.  We  soon  got  cramped  and 
stiff,  but  the  game  for  which  we  were  out 
was  an  exciting  ,one,  and  our  anticipation 
helped  while  away  the  two  solid  hours  that 
passed  before  we  saw  much  that  interested 
us. 

How  still  it  was  between  the  night  cries 
that  came  to  our  ears  from  the  distant  for- 
est. There  was  always  the  low  gurgling 
glee  of  the  water  as  it  slipped  through  the 
hole  that  we  had  made  in  the  dam,  but 
when  the  hooting  of  an  owl  or  the  bark- 
ing of  a  fox  had  died  away  and  we  had 
only  the  soft  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the 
pines,  and  the  murmur  of  the  water,  the 
wilderness  seemed  like  some  enchanted 
land  upon  which  there  had  been  laid  a 
spell  of  silence,  deep  and  abiding. 


In  Beaver-Land  193 

The  heavens  were  so  studded  with  stars 
that  it  seemed  as  though  there  was  not 
room  for  another,  while  the  milky-way 
glowed  white  and  luminous.  The  Hunt- 
er's Moon  was  at  its  full  and  flooded  the 
distant  vistas  of  the  forest  with  a  light 
almost  as  bright  as  day.  Every  star  in 
heaven  and  the  great  luminous  moon  were 
reflected  in  the  lake,  which  shimmered  and 
sparkled  almost  phosphorescently.  It 
was  a  scene  to  make  one  draw  long  deep 
breaths,  and  the  pulse  to  beat  fast  and 
strong. 

Some  distance  upstream,  probably  a 
mile  away,  we  heard  a  tree  fall,  with  a 
thundering  crash,  which  echoed  across  the 
lake  again  and  again.  From  the  sound 
we  knew  that  a  tree  not  less  than  two  feet 
had  been  laid  low. 

We  had  concluded  that  the  energies  of 
the  colony  were  all  employed  in  tree  cut- 
ting for  that  night  and  were  about  to 
descend,  when  we  noticed  several  short 


194    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

logs  floating  down  towards  the  dam,  they 
seemed  to  be  floating  much  faster  than 
the  current  would  naturally  carry  them 
and  we  were  at  first  unable  to  account  for 
it,  but  when  the  logs  got  nearer  to  the  dam 
we  made  out  the  dark  head  of  a  beaver 
floating  behind  each  log  and  the  rapidity 
with  which  the  logs  had  floated  was  ex- 
plained. Each  was  being  pushed  by  an 
energetic  log  driver. 

When  within  about  a  hundred  feet  of 
the  dam  the  beavers  evidently  discovered 
the  damage  that  we  had  done,  for  they  left 
their  logs  and  swam  hurriedly  to  the  break. 
One  climbed  into  the  crevasse  and  tried  to 
pull  the  ends  of  projecting  sticks  together. 
All  seemed  much  excited,  for  they  swam 
to  and  fro,  now  disappearing  under  the 
water,  as  though  they  had  dove  to  the  bot- 
tom to  see  how  far  down  the  break  ex- 
tended, and  then  reappearing  in  the  break. 
We  thought  we  counted  half  a  dozen,  but 
they  disappeared  so  suddenly  and  reap- 


In  Beaver-Land  195 

peared  in  such  unexpected  places  that  we 
were  not  sure  of  their  number. 

Finally  all  swam  away  upstream  where 
they  were  gone  about  twenty  minutes. 
But  they  soon  returned  pushing  alder  and 
willow  bushes  before  them  in  the  water. 
These  they  stuck  into  the  foundation  of 
the  dam,  filling  the  gap  with  a  row  of 
stakes  or  pickets.  So  far  they  had  set  to 
work  just  as  a  farmer  would  mend  a  brush 
fence.  Then  they  went  away  upstream 
again  and  reappeared  in  about  the  same 
time  that  they  had  before.  This  time 
they  brought  more  brush,  which  they  wove 
between  the  stakes,  laterally.  This  was 
evidently  the  backbone,  for  they  soon 
brought  sods,  which  they  floated  in  the 
water  just  as  they  had  the  sticks,  and  laid 
them  in  front  of  the  brush  fence  that  they 
had  already  built.  The  current  carried 
the  sods  into  all  the  crevasses  and  the  flow 
of  water  was  lessened  but  it  was  not  until 
they  had  carried  sods  and  mud  for  an  hour 


196     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

that  the  break  was  entirely  filled.  In  a 
day  or  two  when  the  mud  and  sod  had 
dried,  the  repairs  on  the  dam  would  not 
be  noticed. 

Several  times  that  night  we  heard  the 
thunderous  crash  of  falling  trees  and  as 
stray  logs  occasionally  floated  down  and 
lodged  against  the  dam,  we  concluded  that 
quite  a  gang  were  engaged  in  wood-cut- 
ting further  up  the  lake. 

After  we  had  descended  the  old  pine 
and  returned  to  camp,  the  guide  told  me 
many  interesting  things  about  the  beaver. 
As  we  spent  several  days  in  beaver-land, 
fishing  and  investigating  the  dwellings 
and  other  workmanship  of  these  mar- 
velous rodents,  our  conversations  often 
turned  upon  beaver  pelts  and  their  wearers 
and  the  guide  told  me  of  the  old  days  when 
it  had  been  profitable  to  trap  beaver  for 
the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  even  as  far 
south  as  our  beaver  valley,  where  they  are 
now  protected. 


In  Beaver-Land  197 

Ever  since  the  year  1680  the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  has  been  doing  a  thriving 
business  in  fur,  especially  in  the  sleek  coat 
of  the  beaver. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  that  this 
Company  should  have  been  in  the  field  so 
soon  after  Plymouth  and  Jamestown,  but 
it  is  a  matter  of  history.  When  the  Com- 
pany was  first  organized  in  London  it  was 
looked  upon  as  a  very  wild  venture.  The 
Company  had  to  send  out  supplies  a  year 
ahead.  These  consisted  of  traps,  guns, 
knives,  blankets,  and  provisions  which 
were  given  to  scores  of  trappers,  who  went 
away  into  the  wilderness  and  were  not 
seen  again  by  the  Factors  at  the  different 
posts,  for  six  or  eight  months,  or  until  the 
fur  season  was  over. 

Those  who  had  scoffed  at  the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  were  thunderstruck,  when 
that  Company  paid  seventy-five  per  cent, 
on  all  invested  stock,  the  first  year.  Ever 
since  that  time,  or  for  about  two  hundred 


198    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

and  twenty-five  years,  this  Company  has 
done  an  astounding  business,  and  due  to 
certain  land  grants  that  it  early  received 
from  the  British  government,  it  is  a  won- 
derfully rich  company  to-day,  still  doing  a 
large  business,  with  its  headquarters  at 
Winnipeg. 

But  how  fared  it  with  the  poor  beaver 
all  this  time? 

His  story  is  a  sad  one,  and  parallels  that 
of  the  red  man  in  nearly  every  instance. 
Like  the  red  man,  he  died  hard,  holding 
tenaciously  to  his  rivers  and  lakes  until 
his  numbers  became  decimated,  and  he 
was  finally  obliged  to  seek  a  home  in  other 
climes,  or  be  exterminated.  When  the 
fur  trade  was  at  high  water  mark  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company,  the  French 
North  West  Company,  and  the  Nether- 
lands Company  together  exported  a 
quarter  of  a  million  beaver  skins  per  an- 
num. Of  course  these  little  animals  could 
not  long  withstand  such  inroads  and  to- 


In  Beaver-Land  199 

day  they  are  nearly  extinct  in  the  United 
States. 

The  beaver  seems  to  be  a  very  social 
fellow,  living  in  communities.  His  family 
life  also  seems  to  be  very  pleasant,  for 
sometimes  there  will  be  fifteen  or  even 
twenty  bea\ers  living  in  the  very  largest 
lodges. 

A  family  always  comprises  the  old 
beavers,  the  babies,  the  yearlings,  and  the 
two  year  olds,  but  when  they  reach  that 
age  they  are  shoved  out  into  the  world  to 
make  room  for  the  new  babies.  But  this 
home-leaving  is  probably  no  hardship  for 
them,  for  the  mating  instinct  is  by  that 
time  asserting  itself,  and  they  seek  out 
mates  and  make  homes  for  themselves. 

The  dam  building  instinct  of  the  beaver 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  instincts  in 
the  animal  kingdom. 

It  enables  its  possessors  to  build  dams 
of  wonderful  symmetry  and  size;  struc- 
tures that  it  would  seem  impossible  for 


2OO     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

such  small  creatures  to  build.  One  ob- 
server saw  a  dam  that  was  three  hundred 
feet  long,  and  into  which  he  estimated  that 
there  had  been  rolled  no  less  than  thirty- 
six  thousand  logs. 

The  beaver's  dam  is  built  for  protection, 
to  make  a  little  Venice  where  he  shall  be 
secure  from  his  enemies.  Just  as  the 
feudal  lords  of  old  surrounded  their  castles 
with  moats,  he  surrounds  his  lodge  with  a 
broad  lake,  so  that  his  enemies  cannot  get 
at  him  as  easily  as  they  otherwise  would. 
The  entrance  to  his  house  is  always  under 
water,  and  to  protect  himself  against  low 
water,  which  would  sometimes  be  felt  in 
a  stream,  he  dams  the  stream,  and  thus 
makes  sure  of  keeping  the  water  above 
his  underground  passage.  The  lake  also 
serves  as  a  place  of  storage  for  the  beaver's 
great  supply  of  wood,  which  is  his  food 
in  winter.  If  it  were  not  for  his  dam,  the 
wood  would  probably  be  swept  down- 
stream, and  the  beaver,  who  is  locked 


In  Beaver-Land  201 

under  the  ice  in  winter  would  have  to  go 
hungry. 

In  France  the  beavers  are  nearly  all 
bank  beavers,  and  do  not  build  houses. 
Probably,  because  the  streams  are  deep 
and  sluggish,  and  the  water  is  of  a  uni- 
form depth  for  the  entire  year,  but  in 
America  nearly  all  the  beavers  are  house- 
builders.  Once  in  a  while  a  bank  beaver 
is  found  in  this  country.  He  makes  his 
home  in  a  borough  in  the  bank,  as  the  otter 
does,  but  his  life  is  not  as  well  ordered  as 
that  of  the  house  beaver. 

The  wood-cutting  habit  of  the  beaver 
is  as  remarkable  as  his  dam-building  in- 
stinct. When  we  see  trees  three  or  four 
feet  in  diameter  laid  low,  by  these  indus- 
trious rodents,  we  cannot  deny  that  they 
have  patience,  and  pluck.  A  traveller  up 
the  Missouri  river  tells  of  seeing  a  cotton 
wood  tree  nine  feet  in  diameter  more  than 
half  cut  down. 

In  cutting  down  trees  the  beaver  stands 


2O2     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

upon  his  hind  legs,  balancing  himself  on 
his  broad  flat  tail,  and  nips  a  girdle  about 
the  tree.  He  then  cuts  another  girdle 
above  the  first,  and  pulls  out  the  chip  be- 
tween. This  process  is  repeated  until  the 
forest  monarch  falls.  Usually,  however, 
they  confine  themselves  to  trees  a  foot  or 
less  in  diameter,  as  these  logs  are  more 
easily  handled,  both  in  dam  building  and 
as  food. 

"As  busy  as  a  beaver"  is  a  proverb,  but 
like  many  another  proverb,  it  is  only 
partly  true.  For  two  or  three  months  in 
the  year  the  beaver  is  a  very  busy  fellow, 
but  the  rest  of  the  year,  he  is  one  of  the 
laziest  inhabitants  of  woods  and  waters. 
All  through  the  winter,  from  the  time  that 
the  first  thick  ice  locks  him  under  the 
water,  until  it  breaks  up  in  the  spring,  he 
sleeps  in  .his  lodge.  When  hungry  he 
nibbles  away  at  his  store  of  bark  and  if  he 
wants  exercise  he  goes  for  a  swim  in  the 
lake  to  keep  up  his  muscle.  Then  when 


In  Beaver-Land  203 

the  spring  rains  unlock  the  ice  door  above 
him,  and  he  is  free  again,  the  male  beaver 
who  is  over  three  years  of  age,  goes  on  his 
annual  pilgrimage,  through  lakes  and 
streams. 

He  does  not  care  much  where  he  goes, ' 
as  long  as  he  can  find  plenty  of  water  with 
timber  or  brush  near  by. 

All  through  the  summer  months  he 
wanders,  living  a  day  or  a  week  in  a  place, 
as  the  humor  seizes  him. 

When  the  first  frost  touches  the  soft 
maples  along  the  waterways,  he  turns  his 
nose  homeward. 

Meanwhile  the  female  beavers  have 
been  rearing  the  young,  and  looking  after 
the  yearlings  and  the  two  year  olds. 

Once  the  males  return  to  the  colony  the 
scene  changes  and  from  being  an  indolent 
happy-go-lucky  community  is  become  a 
village  of  industry,  for  the  dam  must  be 
repaired  and  all  the  mud  houses  made 
ready  for  winter.  There  is  also  the  winter 


2O4    Field  and  Forest  Friends 

supply  of  bark  to  cut,  and  in  a  large 
colony  this  means  cords. 

Then  on  starlight  nights  when  the 
Hunter's  Moon  is  at  its  full,  and  the 
autumn  wind  whispers  in  the  treetops, 
you  will  hear  the  trees  falling  with  a  thun- 
derous crash,  that  echoes  away  and  away 
through  the  silent  forest,  and  across  the 
peaceful  beaver  lake. 

Then  you  will  see  hundreds  and  prob- 
ably thousands  of  small  logs  about  three 
feet  in  length,  floating  downstream  to  the 
lake.  The  beaver  has  the  same  provident 
instinct  as  the  bee,  when  he  prods  the 
white  clover  and  the  golden-rod,  and  even 
the  late  fall  asters  bringing  home  their 
sweets,  and  storing  it  up  against  the  time 
of  dearth.  Does  this  not  look  as  though 
there  was  a  calendar  in  the  animal  and  in- 
sect world? 

What  is  more  picturesque  or  pleasing 
in  the  many  happy  surprises  of  the  wilder- 


In  Beaver-Land  205 

ness  than  a  beaver  dam,  holding  in  its 
strong  arm  a  beautiful  woodland  lake? 

It  does  not  look  like  a  thing  that  was 
made  by  hands,  or  teeth  or  feet  either,  for 
that  matter,  but  just  as  though  it  grew 
here,  and  was  a  part  of  nature.  The  ends 
of  the  logs  are  so  ragged,  and  the  whole 
structure  is  so  overgrown  with  lichens  and 
moss,  and  perhaps  willows  or  alders  that 
it  seems  part  and  parcel  of  nature's  handi- 
work. 

But  as  you  fall  to  studying  it  and  see 
how  well  it  was  placed,  how  that  great 
boulder  was  made  to  brace  the  dam  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  or  a  tree  made  to 
hold  one  end,  or  how  the  natural  features 
of  the  landscape  were  made  to  serve  the 
beaver's  ends,  you  wonder  at  his  cunning 
and  his  marvelous  builder's  instinct. 
Then  when  you  see  his  device  for  keeping 
the  water  from  wearing  the  dam  by  con- 
stant overflow,  which  is  nothing  more  or 


206     Field  and  Forest  Friends 

less  than  a  waste-water  dug  about  one  end 
of  the  dam,  you  are  still  more  deeply  im- 
pressed with  his  sagacity. 

The  beaver  might  have  learned  his 
house-building  habit  of  the  Indian,  or  per- 
haps the  Adobe  house  builders  so  closely 
has  he  followed  their  plan.  But  he  is 
wiser  than  they  for  his  front  door  is  al- 
ways locked. 

How  can  we  deny  the  wonder  and  the 
mystery  of  this  life  in  the  beaver  colony? 
The  village  with  its  sages  and  wise  men, 
the  household  with  its  heads  and  its  babes 
and  youngsters  the  strong  wall  or  bulwark 
built  about  the  city  for  the  mutual  protec- 
tion of  all.  The  supplies  that  have  been 
stored  up  against  the  time  of  dearth  and 
the  ingenious  mind  or  instinct  if  you  like 
the  word  better  that  meets  and  overcomes 
all  these  adverse  conditions? 

This  is  the  true  test  of  man  or  beast, 
whether  it  be  in  the  wilderness  or  the  city, 


In  Beaver-Land  207 

to  meet  and  overcome  adverse  conditions 
and  to  make  the  desert  bloom  like  the 
rose. 


END. 


